Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
by E. S. Young
Summary: Sequel to Home. Sands is still an agent, but the CIA isn't keen to keep him around. They test him, stationoimg him in France where he must keep a woman away from both the harm of the Mafia and his past. However, she dosn't make it easy for him.
1. This is Not a Test

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter One**: This is Not a Test

Well, I'm back – (flinches as many people run screaming to the hills) o.o; Ahem, um, anyway, I've got a new fic planed just as I said I would. This time, however, I've got one of my own original characters thrown into the mess. As opposed to Lynné or Liam who are fancharacters, this new character was thought of . . . . about a year ago, I think. Unfortunately, I have yet to post anything with this character because I do not think I have perfected the story yet. However, for anyone who cares to know more about this new character, you are welcome to read my fanfic 'Open Up Your Mind' if you want. It is of the Invader Zim genre but, in short, five of my own characters are taken into the IZ/SI world. I am told it is interesting. (shrug) In any case, enjoy the new story and, as always, don't be confused! If you are, it's just for plot's sake and everything will be resolved in the end – trust me!

--_ESY/Sidney_

* * *

"Do you know the consequences you're facing if anyone finds out?"

"Yes."

"No one must know, _do you understand that_?"

"Yes."

"If someone was to find out . . . it would be the end."

"I know – "

"People would want to test you, perform experiments. And if they somehow found about the island – "

"They won't."

The older woman surveyed the younger through frosty eyes. Her young charge held the gaze, her eyes just as steely. Fire of determination blazed within the young woman's brilliant green orbs.

"Very well," the aging woman said decidedly. "Go to the mainland and get help there. It won't do any good staying here; you have too many enemies."

"Thought none of them would carry out my death – "

"Though none would take the time to put a stop to your deat, either." She sighed when the young woman glared at her. "Child – "

"I'm not a child."

"Young lady, then," the old woman snapped irritably. Then she sighed again. "You need to go quickly. There is nothing holding you back here."

The young woman threw her a skeptical look but she waved her off with urgent impatience.

"_Go!_"

"What about – "

"They won't get anything out of me. Nothing coherent, in any case."

The young woman stared at her for a long while, but finally she nodded. She crossed the room, placed her hand on the door of the ancient cottage, and turned its knob. Stealing one last glance at the older woman, she could not help but notice how tired she looked. Tired with worry. With nothing more than a swish of her long green jacket, the younger woman was out the door and gone.

* * *

Thick, dark brown hair that had been messily piled on top of its owner's head now fell in long strands, blowing loosely in the cool, spring wind. Long, pale skirts swirled around as a pair of hands fingered the brim of a straw hat with polite impatience. One of the delicate hands reached behind and scratched the small of its owner's back in a very unladylike fashion. Though by the sound of the sigh that was heard afterward, the person who had done the scratching felt very relieved. 

_God – damn – corsets,_ Lynnéthought angrily, _I should take a leaf out of what's-her-name's book and go jump off a cliff._

**_Her name was Elizabeth,_** a small voice sneered. No one else heard it. Only Lynné had that ability, after all, it WAS the little voice in her head. Everybody had one. Some called it their conscience. Others considered it to be their alternate personality. But to Lynné it was neither of these things. It was just the little voice in her head that came around every so often to contradict her every thought. And every so often would be every ten seconds, in Lynn's opinion.

**_And she didn't jump off a CLIFF,_** the voice continued. **_It was that . . . port . . . wall . . thing. I don't know what the hell it was but it wasn't a cliff._**

_Fiiiine,_ Lyn sighed, rolling her intense brown eyes that were so dark they could pass as black in certain light. _But, seeing how there are no cliffs around here . . . I'd say I'm outta luck._

**_Not unless some ruggedly hansom pirate decides to save you,_** the voice mused dreamily.

_Oh my Christ, not you, too,_ Lyn groaned to herself.

**_What?_** asked the voice indignantly. **_Everybody likes him._**

_YES,_ Lynné growled with vexation, clenching her teeth together. _That's just it – oh, never mind._

She went back to fiddling with the wide brim of her hat. Or, to the unsuspecting, that is what she would appear to have been doing when in reality Lynné was really listening, keeping her ears sharp for any sound, any noise, anything that might give her a clue.

Narrowing her eyes at her surroundings, her patients wearing thin, Lyn sighed for the third time.

_Now don't get me wrong, this place is much better than Mexico, but . . . who in their right mind would be holding their operations in Williamsburg, Virginia?_

**_Colonial Williamsburg, Virginia,_** the voice reminded her. **_and I don't know. Maybe . . . history freaks?_**

_History freaks with taste,_ Lyn noted approvingly. _MUCH better than Mexico._

_Except for the god – damn – corsets!_ she added as a furious afterthought.

**_Well, you were the one who wanted to go incognito._**

And incognito she had gone. Lynné fit in perfectly with her surroundings despite the dress she was wearing. The gown was beautiful, she had to admit, making a mental note to thank the woman who had made it for her. Long and swish-y with many skirts, the dress was a clean, crisp white color and had little yellow rosebuds scattered here and there. A light fringe of lace around the quarter-length sleeves and neckline, along with a silky yellow sash that tied in the back completed the outfit. Surprisingly, white and pale yellow didn't clash with her hair as much as she thought it would.

**_But why the hell did you decide to wear the blasted dress in the first place?_** the voice had questioned several hours ago when she had been slipping into her old fashioned garments.

Well, why not? Everywhere around her, from tourists to the people that ran the Colonial village, people were wearing the kind of clothing one would have adorned during the days of the Revolutionary War. And as they say, when in Rome, do as the Romans do. Lynné, however, wasn't _in_ Rome so that would require a costume adjustment. The light colors of the gown did not stop it from being swelteringly hot, however. Well, it was April, so what did she expect?

A clue, that's what. She looked up, following the sound with her eyes. And there they were: Two men – make that Neanderthals; these guys were huge . . . -- talking in gruff voices and carrying a large trunk between them. They too had gone for the Colonial look, Lyn noted as she casually began to stroll down the cobbled street. One was in dark blue, the other clad in black.

_Like bruises . . ._ she observed thoughtfully.

Trying her best to look as though she was just a nice young woman playing the part of a random towns person and not a CIA agent who had at least four guns (all of various sizes) hidden within the folds of her voluminous dress, Lynné walked quietly down the street. Her eyes left the pair of thugs occasionally, but her ears never departed. She had herself trained well, almost too well.

**_Watch it,_** the voice warned, sounding incredibly bored, **_Sands just might have to shoot you for that._**

_Yeah, really,_ Lyn snorted with a little toss of her eyes as she came to a stop on the sidewalk directly across from where her prey was standing.

One of the goons looked up, nudged his buddy, and pointed at Lynné, just a short jab of him index finger. The other man muttered something that sounded like 'the girl.'

_Oh, very observant, cheese-dick. What a bright little light bulb you are. _

"What should we do?" the man in black muttered to his partner, trying and failing to move his lips as little as possible. Lynn's eyebrows arched.

"Just act normal, like we aren't doing anything," his fellow crony told him.

"But – "

"Shut up!" the blue-clad thug hissed, glancing around feverishly. He nearly dropped his end of the trunk when a young woman dressed in a gown from the 1700s appeared almost out of nowhere beside him, smiling pleasantly. He quickly covered how startled he was by putting on a mask of annoyance. She had sneaked up behind him; that's all. Still . . . the way she had been so quiet -- her footsteps were completely inaudible – was unnerving.

"Need a hand?" the young woman asked, peering curiously over Blue Goon's shoulder, straining to get a good look at the trunk.

"No," he answered shortly, intent on ending the conversation right then and there, but the girl wasn't about to let that happen.

"Are you sure?" she said skeptically. "It looks _awfully _heavy."

"We're fine, missy, I assure you," Black Goon snapped, shifting the trunk in his hands; the weight of it was obviously getting to him. "Now go away, we're kind of in a hurry."

"Oh. Really? I see . . . Well, I'm kinda of . . . in a hurry myself but . . . I at least had the decency to offer my hand." Lyn tsked, shaking her head sadly. "Clearly the days of chivalry are dead, along . . ." She reached into one of the many creases in her skirt, pulled out a pair of sinister black pistols complete with silencers, and pointed directly at each man's chest. ". . . with you two if you fail to answer a few questions."

The pair of men nearly dropped their cargo at these words, staring wide-eyed at the slim young woman who was holding them at gunpoint. Smiling ironically, Lyn cocked her two weapons in warning.

"Now, is that the money or do you still have the Martello vase? Speak," she ordered sharply as if talking to a pair of dogs instead of two burly thugs.

The goons before her shared a worried glance and tightened their hold on the trunk. It was then that Lynné realized that they had not reached for the guns they most certainly had. They couldn't, not unless they wanted to put the trunk down, that is. Lynné surveyed her targets as she waited for them to answer. The two cave men, however, didn't look like they'd be giving her information any time soon. Lyn sighed letting her annoyance with the men show.

"All right, since you two don't seem to be in the mood for chit-chat today, I guess it's up to me to do the talking." She eyed them for a moment, giving them a few seconds of time in case one of the idiots decided to spill his guts. No dice.

_Looks like we're doing it my way, then._

**_Spare me, please,_** the voice begged mockingly.

"Okay, kiddies," Lyn said aloud, "here's what I think's going on. The vase is in there" – she pointed a gun at the trunk nonchalantly – "I don't think you've sold it yet, judging on how you're not too keen to put that trunk down."

Again the men exchanged looks. This time, Lyn was pleased to note, they looked concerned. Well, that pretty much confirmed her suspicions, however . . .

"Was I right?"

When they didn't answer, Lyn smiled.

"May I ask something?" She didn't wait for a response, perhaps because she knew she was not going to get one. "Why Williamsburg of all places? Can't say I'm complaining – this gig is a helluva lot better than my last job – but this place is so nice . . . why would you wanna spoil it?" Lyn shook her head. "Never mind. Don't ask me to figure out how a criminal's mind works. . . . Priceless artifact thief on the other hand . . ." She smirked again watching the men shift uneasily.

"Anyone else inside?" Lyn demanded suddenly, jabbing one of her pistols in the direction of the Colonial-style house she had seen the two men exiting from.

To her slight surprise, both men shook their heads vigorously, their eyes never leaving the guns she held.

_Hmm . . . are they lying . . . or aren't they lying? That is the question._

* * *

"There – don't you see him?" 

"_Where_?"

"Right _there_, next to – oh, never mind. He just turned the corner."

"You're sure? I still can't believe that he's a live – that either of them are."

"Both of them, of all things. Well, no one should've gotten their hopes too high . . ."

"Yeah, knowing those two, at least one of them was bound to turn up still breathing."

"Yeah . . . but did you hear what the cartel did to Sands in Mexico . . . ?"

* * *

"Told ya you'd be the topic of gossip. Seems you've been deemed worthy of discussion at the water cooler, how sweet," Lynné murmured as she walked bask two of her colleagues, both of whom were whispering intently to one another and frequently stole glances in her direction. "I'm envious." 

Sands smirked at her, shaking his head and saying, "Don't be. I'm sure their interests would change if they knew about you."

"Which is not going to happen . . . unless you'd _like_ to have your ass blown off," Lyn stated, calmly beginning to push open a door. It led to one of the main offices in the CIA.

"Nah," Sands told his sister as he followed her through the door. "I'm not into that kinky sorta thing. Fusco might be, though." He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder at the tall, blonde agent behind him. "Ask him; see if he'd take you up on the offer."

"What?" Liam asked faintly, stopping dead in his tracks and widening his eyes with concern for his own well being.

"Somehow he doesn't seem like the type," Lynné mused thoughtfully, "and even if he is, I'm not, so he's out of luck. Sorry, Fusco," she added, facing Liam, who looked thoroughly relieved.

"Oh, no, I'm – " But he was cut short when the door of the office was thrown open with such force that for a second it looked as though it would come unhinged. The head of the field agents' department stood framed in the doorway, glaring down at the trio of young agents furiously. His eyes narrowed as they prepped themselves for a lecture.

**_Told you this was just like pre-school,_** Sands heard a voice say. Damn, and he'd really been hoping that getting his eyesight back would cause the voice to flee. Not likely seeing how he had heard it since he was eight . . .

_I thought I was the one who told _you_ that._

**_Tomato, tomahto._**

Sands rolled his eyes – ha, at least he could finally do _that_ again – and managed to dampen the sounds of the voice for the time being. Right now, the head was saying something. Nothing important, but it probably wouldn't be a bad idea if he at least gave the impression that he was giving his full attention.

". . . tell you two about messing with rookies?" the head was demanding angrily. His blazing glare may have startled Liam, but it didn't move Lyn or her brother in the least. Quite the contrary, Lynné sauntered up to her boss, wearing an expression of carefully calculated innocence.

"And what did I tell _you_ about it depending on what kind of . . . messing around . . .we were talking about, Latch?" she asked coyly.

"You wanted to see us . . . sir?" Liam broke in tentatively, wanting to prevent as much chaos as he could. Agent Latch seemed annoyed to be interrupted just as he was about to tell a person off, but he merely threw a glare of loathing at Lynné (which she returned with a humorless smirk) and switched his attention to Liam.

"Right," he began professionally, bringing himself up to his full, towering height, "Inside."

He gestured sharply, indicating that he wanted the three in his office without question. They obliged, following his pointed finger. Once inside, Lynné, Sands, and Liam all took up a seat on the worn couch in the corner, staring at Latch expectantly as he positioned himself behind his desk. Glaring at them in the most authoritative way possible, Latch began:

"First off, I'd like to congratulate you on a job well done, Lynné," he said, nodding to her. "Although I think you could've handled it with a little more _care_ –"

"I was very careful," Lyn said indignantly, "It was those two goon who stole the thing that dropped it."

"_After_ you'd shot one of them," Latch reminded her, glaring.

"You could consider that self-defense," Sands suggested mildly.

"See?" Lyn offered, gesturing to Sands, "And that little nick was nothing."

"Little ni – you're calling a two-inch crack a_ nick_?" Latch thundered, outraged.

"Yes," Lyn replied simply, shrugging it off.

"Wasn't there something you wanted to tell us?" Liam said loudly, casting a nervous glance at Lyn. He didn't know what was on the woman's mind but she was certainly in the mood to push somebody to the limit – and the head of their department was _not_ the someone to annoy.

"What?" Latch half shouted at him. "Oh . . .yes. Well, now that you are all . . . back in the fold, we're ready to give you a new assignment. You three feel up to it?"

Sands and his sister's eyebrows arched simultaneously in a 'come-off-it' expression. Liam, on the other hand, nodded vigorously, eager to prove himself to the agency.

"Good," Latch said, "then we'll just ge –"

"Where is it?" Sands cut in abruptly.

"Excuse me?"

"Where – are – we – being – sent?" he asked again, saying each word loudly and clearly as if he was speaking with a hyperactive three-year-old or a very deaf old man. He grinned cheerfully when Latch's eyes slanted. Their boss's eyebrows were knitted so closely together they almost formed on single mono-brow.

"France," he answered shortly, "you three will choose a team of agents you feel competent enough to take along – "

"Just us then," Sands muttered quietly. Lyn let out a short laugh, blatantly agreeing with him. If Latch heard them, he gave no indication.

"You're going there for protection," he informed them stiffly.

"Protection?" echoed Liam curiously.

"Protection??" Sands asked skeptically.

Lyn only blinked in disbelief. Insanity; that's what it was. She knew from the start that the 'I' in CIA couldn't possibly stand for 'Intelligence,' but she had always wondered what a good replacement might be. Central Insanity Agency certainly seemed to fit right now. They had to be more than a little crazy to send her off to France. Not that she was complaining about that, it was definitely a nicer assignment than the one she'd had in Mexico. But . . . Latch didn't say 'protection.' He couldn't have, he wouldn't. Hell, more than likely, she would be the one the person would need protection from.

_What can I say? I'm not a people person._

* * *

"So this girl is being hunted down by a Mafia family . . . because _her_ family's dead and she's the last one . . ." Sands shook his head after repeating this recently gained information. He opened the door of his D. C. apartment, waiting for Lynné to go through first. "If I didn't know any better . . . I'd say we were all trapped in a very tired cliché." 

"Ohhh . . . probably," Lyn sighed, crossing the living room to get to the couch. "But what do I know?"

"Many useless things and an equal number of things you shouldn't know," Sands answered before getting back on track. "But she came to the CIA for help, and, they're sending her to Paris for her own . . . protection."

At this, Lynné let out a raucous laugh that dripped with sarcasm.

"But, in reality, we _want _the mob to find her so the CIA can bring them down, that right?"

"That's the idea," Lyn said, folding her arms over her chest casually.

"And the name of this woman is . . . I don't know what the hell kinda name this is for a person but . . . Zebbidy . . . Samhain?" he murmured as he strode through the room.

"SOW-when," Lyn corrected offhandedly, but she rolled her eyes nonetheless. "Irish, if I'm not mistaken."

"I didn't know you spoke Irish," Sands said as he threw open the door to his bedroom.

"I don't," his sister called from the living room. She was making herself comfortable in her brother's humble abode and had already pulled out her latest read: Stephen King's _Four Past Midnight_, a collection of four short yet horrific stories that kept her on edge of her seat. Well, the first one (_The Langoliers_) had anyway, but maybe that was because it was about airplanes. Hopefully the second story in the collection, one entitled _Secret Window, Secret Garden_, would be just as spellbinding.

"Then how do you explain 'SOW-when?" Sands called to Lyn from his bedroom.

"You know, I really don't know," she answered truthfully. "I think I read it in a book somewhere or something . . ."

Sands rolled his eyes at this comment, picking up and discarding a pair tennis racket that, he imagined, had been thrown into his trash heap of a closet randomly. He continued rummaging around the area for clothes and other various items of requirement: Walkman, CDs that contained _good_ music, toothbrush and paste, fake moustaches and the like, and, of course, his third arm. Damn thing just about saved his life about five months ago in Mexico but where the hell was it . . . ??

Vaguely he wondered why Lynné was at his place instead of ferreting around her own home, looking for _her_ goddamn disguises and vast assortment of outfits like Fusco had, but no matter. Knowing Lyn, she didn't have that much to pack, having just gotten back from her mission in Williamsburg, Virginia.

**_You're kidding, right?_** his voice asked. **_May I remind you that she's a woman, no matter how touched her little head might me. Therefore, despite the fact that her suitcases are probably already ready doesn't mean anything. She's gonna have to go out a by herself a whole new wardrobe for this trip, especially since it's in FRANCE._**

_Y'know, I think you've got something there,_ Sands told it. Straightening, he caught site of himself in the mirror hanging beside the closet door. He had his hair pulled back for reasons he didn't know (Lyn said it was because he was chauvinistic but he begged to differ). In any case, the lack of hair made his facial features more noticeable. Now his eyes stood out more with nothing to curtain them from the world.

Sands abandoned his search for his missing arm for the time being and tossed one of his tackier T-shirts (one that read: 'Man's Best Friend' and had an arrow pointing downward) into his opened suitcase. Instead he moved closer to the sliver of reflective glass on his wall and began to study his image.

'_Oh, they're green? How does that look on me?_'

'_Sands, dear, I must be honest,_' Lyn had said, reaching out and placing a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. '_It does absolutely nothing for your image._'

And she had been right, Sands had learned several months later. Once he had finally regained his sight (which was still more than a little blurred) he had had to wear glasses for about a month and during that time he had glanced at a mirror. As soon as he did this he saw that his sister's uncanny ability to always be correct had not wavered in the slightest. Green eyes did not work with him, no questions asked. They just didn't fit his face, his personality, him in general. Shortly after, he had convinced the man who had performed the surgery that had replaced his empty sockets with light green orbs to let him get contact lenses. _Colored_ contact lenses, to be precise. And so his eyes were back to their original, dark, intense brown hue, and he plainly refused to have it any other way.

Sands faced twisted into a smile and he smirked at his own image in the mirror with something once might consider to be satisfaction. Blue could have worked, but . . . nah. He was defiant, he had to give himself that. And, upon seeing the time (7:00 PM) reflected backwards in his mirror, he would be late as well.

Turning away from the mirror Sands surveyed the miscellaneous mixture of things that were scattered throughout his bedroom. The rest of his house wasn't like this. Actually, apart from the bedroom, the rest of the apartment was quite organized. He supposed his sleeping quarters were just a mess simply because whenever he came home from a mission, he would throw off his shoes and whatever shirt he was wearing, chuck anything he was carrying in a corner, and promptly collapse on the bed. Taking in the wreck of a bedroom before him, Sands sighed in an 'oh well' sort of way. He had best get packing. They were supposed to be at the airport at 5:00 AM the next moring. And it was there that he would have the pleasure (and he used the term lightly) of meeting Miss Sam-when . . . Samhane . . . Sam-hen . . .

SOW-when?

* * *

_Well, there you have the first chapter. I hope I made it enjoyable. Dunno where the Williamsburg thing came from, honestly. I really think I was just thinking about the time my family went to Colonial Williamsburg – word of advice: _Very_ nice place, it's gorgeous and very informative too. u.u (history freak here, don't mind her 9.9) Oh, and if nobody caught that '_Secret Window'_ or '_Pirates of the Caribbean_' references, I will scream. Seriously, guys . . . I will. .;;;_

_Oh, and a note about the title of this new fic. It is, in fact, also named after a song. A very good song that, in my opinion, reminds me more of Sands and Ajedrez's . . . relationship even more than '_Crazy Dream' _by the Los Lonely Boys or_ 'Day Tripper' _by the Beatles. Actually,_ 'Day Tripper' _makes me think of Lyn more than anything else, as I said in TLWH. But anyway, once this story is done I'll post the lyrics in the last chapter just like in my previous OUaTiM story. ) _Then_ tell me they don't make sense, why don't you. (yes, I'm looking at _you_, Gilatas Monster .O) R&R! Thanks!_

o


	2. Interrogation Duty

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Two:** Interrogation Duty

Y'know, to me the best part about this is the fact that I'm sending everyone to a place where I can actually speak most of the language. Lynné is pleased about this as well. She was getting tired of having to hear nothing but Spanish for the past three years. Apparently, the only Spanish teaching she ever had was from watching many episodes of Dora the Explorer for reference before she left for Mexico. O.o In any case, now she is going to be in a country where she actually understands what everyone is saying (even though she pretends she doesn't 9.9). This makes her happy, and, trust me, that is a very good thing. 9.9;;;

* * *

Everything was blurred around the edges as Sands slowly opened his eyes. Where the hell was he . . . and why was his head throbbing so mu – oh. That's right. He had been drugged. Needle to the neck and out he went. Sands started to raise a hand, wanting to rub his eyes and clear his smeared vision, but found that he couldn't. His limbs and torso were being held immobile by straps, like the kind that had held down the monster as Dr. Frankenstein attempted reanimation of life. That seemed to be the exact opposite of what his captors were thinking. It had to be. 

The badly mangled, bandaged face of Armando Barillo sneered, looking like it had just had a nasty fight with a food processor and lost. The disfigured drug lord loomed over him menacingly and beside him stood his dear friend, the good doctor Guevera. Sands chose not to look at the doctor, knowing he would only terrify himself further if he saw what Guevera was holding. Instead, he forced all of his attention on Barillo.

'_Fortunately for you,_' the drug lord sneered, '_you have not done anything worth dying over._'

Sands blinked in confused. What . . . ?

'_You have only . . . _seen _. . . too much._'

The beautiful face of the woman he had once trusted, once loved leered down at him from afar. No. Hell no. This wasn't right. She was not going to be the last thing he ever saw; she couldn't be. He had trusted her and she had turned against him, sold him out, drugged him, and been part of the plan to bring him down. He would be damned if Ajedrez was the last thing he saw.

Sands twisted and writhed where he lay, trying anything to free himself of the straps that bound him. His attempts were useless. His bindings were strong and would not give. Still, it didn't hurt to try. Twisting where he lay, Sands tried desperately to free himself even though he knew he made his actions in vain.

And then he heard it: The whirring, grinding noise that made him think of a dentist drill. In spite of his own orders not to look, Sands jerked his head around and saw what nearly made him yell in horror. A motorized drill – no . . . corkscrew . . . ? Yes, that's exactly what it was. Seemed that Dr. Guevera liked to tinker with tools every now and then and had whipped this little gadget up especially for the occasion. How sweet.

The electric spinning horror came ever closer and Sand continued to struggle, his eyes wide with fear. Suddenly, he was plunged into a world of suffering and torment from which there was no end. Everything had gone red, a deep terrible red the color of blood. HIS blood. It streamed down his face in rivers of dark crimson liquid and he screamed. The pain was too intense . . . it had finally gotten to him, and he had screamed.

Sands sunk his teeth into his lip in an attempt to silence himself, managing to dull his own yells down to a agonized whimper. He gasped, closing his remaining eye in relief as he heard the sound of the drill being pulled back.

Was it over . . . ? No.

Through the flood of pain and darkness that had surrounded him, he could hear Ajedrez's high, cold laughter filled with malice at the sight of another human being lacerated, mangled, and torn.

Before he could recover from the first bout of torture, Sands found himself being thrown into agony once again, and this time it was ten times worse. At first blackness had only covered his right eye, but now, it was all he saw – all he didn't see.

Sands lay on the table, panting for breath and barley aware that he was no longer being held down by restraints. He made no attempt to move, thinking that they were just figuring out what other means of torment they could use against him. But the next thing he knew, his arm had been seized and he was being pulled roughly into a sitting position. His shoulders shook but other than that Sands did not move.

'_Get up._' He heard Ajedrez's voice commanding him but he didn't respond.

'_We're through with you,_' she told him heartlessly. '_Go._'

His breathing shallow, Sands carefully felt his way around the table, fumbling for its edge. A pair of hands grabbed his quivering shoulders and shoved him in the direction of the door.

'_Oh_,' he heard Ajedrez say in mock surprise. '_Here, you'll be needing these._'

He felt something being shoved onto the bridge of his nose – his sunglasses, he realized – and heard Ajedrez's cold laugh once again.

Sands shivered as he tried to fight against the darkness that had overthrown him. But it was impossible. The world of black he had now entered was timeless, endless, and he would never escape.

* * *

"Are you all right? Hey, c'mon, wake up . . ." 

A silky voice and a consoling hand on his arm brought Sands out of his nightmare with a start. Blinking rapidly, he looked around him in search of any signs of danger. His eyes landed on the woman in the seat next to him. Long, thick, auburn hair spilled over her shoulders, falling onto the dark purple shirt she wore. Her vibrant green eyes were wide with concern and Sands noticed that her semi-long nose that curved upward daintily was twitching slightly. The delicate hand of Zebbidy Samhain, the young woman he was supposed to be protecting, was placed across his arm.

"Are you all right?" she repeated, still looking worried. "You were shaking."

"Fine," he assured her, peeling her hand off of him, thoroughly annoyed with himself for freaking out over something that had happened months ago. "Just fine."

"Are you sure – "

"_Yes_."

She wisely backed off. Good. Now maybe he'd get some peace.

**_In your dreams – well, no. You've never been one to have pleasant dreams, have you, Sheldon?_**

_Not when they're plagued by drills, betraying girlfriends, and memories past, no._

"Sands?"

He looked up. In the row of seats in front of his, Lynné had twisted around and was looking at him with mild anxiety, her dark brown eyes large.

"As I told Miss Samhain –"

"SOW-when," both his sister and the woman who bore such a confusing name corrected.

"— I'm just peachy. Now leave me alone and fuck off. Maybe then I'll be able to fall asleep on this plane."

"Yeah, you do that," Lyn muttered, turning back around.

She glanced in the seat next her hers and shook her head at the sight of Agent Liam Fusco of the CIA completely paralyzed with fear as their airplane drifted peacefully, almost lazily through toward their destination.

_Told him he shouldn't have watched that movie,_ she thought to herself.

**_Ah, you know men,_** the voice said wisely.

_Yes,_ she agreed, _I do._

"Attention passengers," a bored sounding voice announced over the loudspeakers of the airplane. "We will be arriving in Paris, France shortly so please fasten your seatbelts as the plane prepares to land."

_Well, so much for getting a few more hours of sleep . . ._

"Welcome to the city of lights, gang." Sands heard Lyn mutter from her seat in front of him.

Fighting off a wave of nausea as the plane descended to the ground, Sands bowed his head and closed his eyes. Planes always made him sick, though he did not know why. The good thing was they never pushed to the point of throwing up. Not saying that there hadn't been some close calls. The only way to dismiss the airsickness was sleep and even when he did accomplish that his nightmares always came flying back to wake him. Sands ground his hand into the armrest of his seat. His contacts were itching, a warning that he should take them out and replaced them with his glasses.

**_You won't, cocky jackass._** This time the voice sounded suspiciously like his sister, but Sands ignored it.

He felt the plane sliding down to the earth below him. It had been a long and tedious journey that could have ended sooner in his opinion but didn't. Maybe there was somebody up there (or down _there_) trying to spite him. He wasn't sure. However, just in case there was, Sands decided to make a warning.

_Fuck off, Ajedrez. Leave me in peace._

**_Oh, Christ,_** groaned the voice. **_Don't tell me you're _that _paranoid. You actually think that heaven and hell exist?_**

_I never said I was an Atheist,_ Sands informed it pointedly. _Agnostic R Us right here._

**_Oh for the love of God . . ._**

_Contradictor._

**_Whiner._**

_Ass._

**_Wanker._**

'_Wanker?_' Sands thoughts were full of amused disbelief.

**_Lynnie's used it before_,** the voice replied indignantly.

_Listening to Lyn, are we?_

**_No._**

_Me thinks thou doth protesteth too much_.

**_Oh, to hell with you . . . whiner._**

_Dick_.

**_Fuckmook._**

_Catchphrase-stealer._

* * *

"What sort of family forms connections with the mob when they're from Wisconsin?" Lyn asked Zebbidy Samhain skeptically as they reached their small group of expensive hotel rooms with the rest of the CIA agents she and Sands had deemed worthy enough to 'tag along.' 

"Mine, I guess," the woman she was supposed to be protecting answered, shrugging her slim shoulders.

_So unaware that she's being used,_ Lyn mused in a would-be sympathetic voice if she ever actually felt sympathy.

**_Mmm,_** her inner voice murmured, **_and I'm so aware that you're annoyed with that answer._**

_Yeah, I am. She can do better than that._

"But you were unaware that they had been involved with the Poisson Mafia family?" Lyn pressed, looking at the woman before her and taking in her new subject of study.

"I told you, yes," Zebbidy hissed, glaring in annoyance.

_Okay, so she's uptight. I really shouldn't blame her cuz "she's been through a lot" but really, she doesn't have to be rude._

**You_ do,_** the voice snorted.

_Yes, but I'm allowed. CIA, remember? Those three initials give me access to a lotta things other people aren't entitled to._

"Anything you need to know is in there in my file," Miss Samhain said, irked. She nodded her reddish-brown head at the file in one of the agent's (Agent Lynch's) hands. Without another word, she whirled around to face the door of her room, fumbling to unearth the key she had hidden in her pocket.

"I suppose I'm just to . . . wait around here until you bring the Poissons down?" she asked, holding up her key in success.

"Oh, of course not, Miss Samhain," Sands said in a falsely cheerful voice. He was striding up to the two with Liam trailing after him lugging several bags. "While you're in France we want you to enjoy yourself, make the most of things."

_Get yourself kidnapped by the very mob you think we're protecting you from, that sorta thing,_ he thought but didn't dare say for risk of compromising the mission.

"Just go out and see the sights, ma'am," Liam put in, smiling politely. "Try not to worry about the future."

"Yeah, try and heed your own advice for us, won't you, Fusco?" Sands inquired, pleased to see his fellow agent frown in annoyance.

Lyn quirked an eyebrow but said nothing.

_Christ, let this place make good daiquiris. I really don't wanna have to go scouting around for a decent bar._

* * *

"Where were you born?" 

"Maine, but my family moved to Wisconsin when I was about four."

"Have you ever been anywhere else?"

"No."

"Your parents names . . . ?"

"O – Odysseus and Helena," Zebbidy answered with some hesitation. Sands didn't blame her; those names weren't common, in fact, they were rather unbelievable. Sands felt that his charge was telling the truth, though. The tone of her voice assured him of that. Then again, he had once thought of Ajedrez's voice as reassuring as well and look at what that had resulted in.

Sands sighed, annoyed that he was the one who had been conned into doing this. Everyone else was busing themselves with their own agendas: Liam and three other agents were off bugging the hotel, two more agents were setting up the computer equipment in one of the rooms, and Lynné had made herself scarce by whisking off to get a strawberry daiquiri. And so, Sands had been stuck with interrogation duty. Not that they hadn't already gathered plenty of information on Miss Samhain _before_ they had flown to France. However, according to, well, everyone at the company the person who had questioned her before hand was not what one would call a great inquisitor. Oh, he was a pro at meddling in other people's affairs, he just sucked at researching their clients and figuring out their personalities, what made them tick, and especially their weaknesses.

Luckily, that just so happened to be one of Sands' areas of expertise.

"And you have no immediate family?" he pressed.

"No," Zebbidy replied, short and to the point in every one of her answers. "They're all dead. Forgive me for sounding dramatic and cliché but . . . I have no one."

_Join the club, sister._

"And you don't have any friends or acquaintances in, ah, Wisconsin?"

". . . . no."

"And you're thirty-one, right?"

Zebbidy cleared her throat.

"Yes," she responded, and Sands detected a note of uneasiness in her voice. The hell she was thirty-one.

"Tell me again," Sands began, flipping through the folder that contained all of the CIA's information on Zebbidy Samhain. "Because I can't seem to find anything in this" – he gestured to the file – ". . . have you ever been anywhere else? Besides Maine and Wisconsin?"

Silence, then –

"No. Not that I remember."

"Okay," Sands sighed, rubbing his eyes. "What about –"

"You don't where contacts, do you?" Zebbidy interrupted.

Sands shot her a questioning look. Women's intuition was something he could do without. Especially from this chick; he got enough of it from Lyn and his stepsister Grace whenever she was around without adding another girl to the mixture.

"Why?" he demanded sharply.

"Well, I was just going to suggest taking them out, that's all." She shrugged offhandedly. "They're obviously bothering you."

Sands threw an irksome glare her way, but continued with his questions.

"Just for curiosity's sake," he began slowly, "where do you get a name like 'Zebbidy Samhain?'"

Zebbidy stared and for the first time Sands could not determine if she looked insulted or simply thoughtful.

"Well," she sighed, "I'm not sure exactly. I know it's strange, and you've probably never heard of it before."

"Can't say that I have."

Surprisingly, she ignored Sands' rudeness, continuing as if the agent had said nothing.

"But while my mother was pregnant with me, she was rereading a book she had read when she was younger: _The House with the Clock in it's Wall._ And in the book there's a town called New Zebedee, not spelled the same as my name, of course, but said the same none the less. It was one of her favorites, so . . ." She shrugged nonchalantly. ". . . that's what she decided to call me."

Sands said nothing but acknowledged her little story with a single nod.

"When d'you think you'll be able to catch them?" Zebbidy asked suddenly, and Sands was surprised to hear that her voice was neither quiet nor concerned (the two things he detected the most when dealing with that question). Zebbidy Samhain's voice was merely curious, and maybe even a bit interested. Strange.

"Catch them?" Sands repeated with a hollow laugh. "You mean all of them? I hate to be the one to break it to you, Zeb" – he bit back a smirk when Miss Samhain glared at her new little nickname – "but it's unlikely that we'll be able to bring down all of them. What the CIA plans on doing is simply . . . dulling their operations down a bit and then . . . you should be able to go back to Wisconsin and your normal . . . everyday . . . life."

"So you won't be able to bring down all of them?" Zebbidy asked sternly.

"Not for a long time," he replied, truthful and unconcerned.

The woman sighed, rolling her eyes up to the ceiling and rose from her seat.

"Are you finished?"

Sands grinned wryly.

"Gonna do some sight seeing?"

Zebbidy rolled her eyes again and sighed theatrically.

"After I unpack . . . why not?"

She said nothing else but strode over to the door of Sands' hotel room, picking at the hem of her long green jacket as she walked. Then, just as she had laid her hand on the doorknob, she turned back to the CIA agent sitting on the bed.

"Oh, and take out your contacts, all right? In all honestly, I can't say I'd feel safer if I knew I had a blind CIA agent watching my back."

With that, she opened the door and was gone. From his position on the bed Sands glared, raising his arms in a movement that was crossed between a swinging punch and a gesture of strangulation.

_I'm sure you'd feel differently if you knew about last years' Day of the Dead extravaganza, sugar-butt._

* * *

_Geh, that wasn't very eventful, was it? Sorry, I just had a lot of trouble writing this chapter after I got done with the dream sequence. After that I, admittedly, felt like I was rambling. Zebbidy needed to be introduced, though, so I guess I _did_ accomplish_ some_thing. It gets better once we get into the plot, which will, hopefully, start within the next two chapters. Stay with me, guys, that's all I can say. I have something of a feeling it's going to get better. o.o'_

**Review Responses and Author's Thanks**

**Dawnie-7: **D Somebody caught it! Okay, so both references were rather obvious, but there were a few in my first fic that I thought everyone would get and nobody said anything. O.o For instance, whenever Sands and Company gets back to the 'States for the first time, at the airport Grace is holding a sign up so they'll know it's her and the sign says 'Corso' on it. I dunno how popular _The Ninth Gate_ was, though, so maybe that's why nobody got it. (looks at what she wrote) o.o! I'm rambling! Again!

**TheDmntFerret: **(hands over a cookie) :D!!!

**vanillafluffy: **Shortly after I saw OUaTiM for the first time I saw that shirt and automatically thought '_That's Sands' shirt. No question._' I meant to put it in my last fic but forgot, oy. But I'm glad you liked it and my stories. I loved yours, by the way, and am eagerly anticipating a sequel to _Darkness Bound._

o


	3. Seeing at la Pique

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Three:** Seeing at la Pique

Geh, I'm having such a hard time holding back in this story! -.-; See, the Sands and Zebbidy characters in a RPG I'm in are much more . . . developed, ie, they know each other better and are actually, very good friends if not more than that. Okay . . . so now they probably are more than friends, which is why it's so difficult to write them! Grrrr . . . but I will not give up, no. I refuse to do that. u.u

* * *

_I'm sure you'd feel differently if you knew about last years' Day of the Dead extravaganza, sugar-butt._

Had . . . Agent Sands, whatever his first name was . . . had he said that out loud . . . or had she just imagined it?

_No. I know I've never imagined things like that. Then again . . . his mind was so complicated. I could hardly figure out anything on the plane._

_That's true,_ Zebbidy agreed with herself after a moment of consideration. What had the agent meant by all of that?

_What I don't understand, was . . . _She thought back to what had made Agent Sands say (or think) those peculiar words.

_Was he blind before now?_ Even to herself the thought sounded stupid. Still, there was that surgery that could cure those who had been born blind. It was really just like a fancy form of laser eye surgery from what she had heard. It was possible.

_But he couldn't have become a CIA agent that quickly,_ she reasoned with herself. _And the CIA certainly wouldn't have hired him if he was blind. If they had, they wouldn't have made him a field agent. But no, that's just not sensible. I know what the CIA is like and they would not take on a blind officer._

But there had been something about the Day of the Dead . . . That was in November, wasn't it? Yes, of course it was in November, she of all people should have remembered that . . .

_Fuck!_ she swore, practically stomping to the room across the hall, the room that she was supposed to call her home for . . . how long would it take for the CIA to finally bring an end to the Poissons' reign of drugs and threats and bloodshed . . . ? Years? Months? Maybe even a few weeks?

_Few weeks my ass. If I believe that then I'm as big an idiot as what's-his-face thinks I am._

That was one thing she was certain of: Agent Sands thought she was an idiot, no question. Then again, he seemed like the kind of man who thought that everyone was stupid to some degree. And everyone was, weren't they? Just like everyone had a little bit of madness tucked away inside of them.

Zebbidy Samhain sighed, leaning against the inside of her hotel room door, her thoughts reeling uncontrollably. Eventually, she pushed herself away from the door and strode across her room (she had even labeled it as 'her room' now, that couldn't be good).

She sat down on the bed, it's pale yellow and bright red cover clashing with her dark blue jeans, green jacket, and purple shirt. Her nose twitched and she reached a hand up to rub it before returning it to the bed spread.

_Something isn't right about this . . . Fuck! I shouldn't've told him my parent's real names, why the _hell_ couldn't I've made something up!? Damnit, I'm such a moron!!_

Flipping open the latches of one of her larger suitcases, Zebbidy began pulling out the case's contents, arranging them neatly on the bed as she did so. A brightly colored afghan, a tiny tin filled with different flavored teas, and lastly, several little bottles each containing something that looked like oddly like the kind of herbs someone's mother would house on her spice rack.

Sighing sadly, Zebbidy stared down at the little row of bottles she had lined up across her bedspread.

_I can't keep these here . . ._

* * *

"Lynné," Liam began, "what are you doing?"

It was a reasonable question. One that anybody would ask if they saw someone enter the bathroom of a hotel, leave the door open, and begin poking at the mirror with their index finger.

"I'm checking the mirror," Lyn explained calmly.

"Um," Liam said looking confused, "why?"

His partner sighed, turning to give him a disdainful look, saying:

"To see if it's a two-way mirror."

And she promptly went back to poking. Liam blinked, taking this new bit of information in.

"How?" he inquired curiously. Lyn rolled her eyes.

"If you simply place the tip of your fingernail against the reflective surface and see that there's a _gap_ between your fingernail and the image of the nail, then it is a _genuine _mirror. However, if your fingernail _directly touches_ the image of your nail, then _beware_, for it is a two-way mirror."

Liam's eyes widened.

"And . . . ?"

Lyn withdrew her finger, smiling cheerfully.

"It's safe."

She started to exit the bathroom but stopped suddenly, a bemused look on her face.

"Or was it if there _isn't_ a gap then it's genuine . . . ? Hmm . . . Oh well," she said brightly, "We'd best get a move on; we have much to do."

* * *

Ignoring the blazing red traffic light, Sands twisted the steering wheel in his hands, swerving into the lane next to his and flying down the aged roads of the Paris intersection.

"Having fun, Mario?" Zebbidy asked ironically, tightening her seatbelt just in case Sands managed to throw them off the road. Not that she thought he would. Just from seeing his calm stance behind the wheel, she had the strange feeling that the agent knew exactly what he was doing and was in complete control of the Miata.

"Just trying to get rid of some unwanted pests, if you don't mind, Zeb," Sands told her, keeping his dark eyes on the road ahead.

"What?" she breathed, looking alarmed. Sands smirked; tally up another point for him.

**_Oh, you're at war with her now? When the hell did that start?_**

Ignoring the voice he said, "Relax, sugar-butt. I meant my darling little sister and her so-called partner."

At this reassurance, Zebbidy leaned over to look into the rearview mirror. Nothing but various European cars met her eyes.

"I . . . don't see them," she told Sands, sounding confused.

Eyes flickering to the side view mirror for a fraction of a second, Sands murmured, "Didn't think you would since she's doing a decent job of keeping herself hidden." He looked at his mirror again. "Not decent enough . . . . . Blue SUV, about five cars back."

Zebbidy turned around in her seat, and sure enough, her eyes finally found the little, blue, sports utility vehicle. Blinking in disarray, Zebbidy gave Sands a questioning look.

"Is there . . . any . . . particular _reason_ they're following us?"

"Honestly, I have no idea. They just might be headed this way; they might not. Agent Fusco was supposed to take you to the Louvre museum but, seeing how he's . . . Agent Fusco . . . none of us really felt that he would react very well if some of the Poisson's hit men just up and started a little shootout. Besides, I'm the mission controller, therefore I am christened with the job of being your babysitter."

"Ah, so that's why you're toting me around," Zebbidy realized.

"That's why," Sands replied in a sarcastically euphoric tone. "And, personally, I wanted to see if you knew how to defend yourself just in case you _do_ get stuck with Agent Fusco," he explained in a much darker voice than the one before.

"I'm touched," Zebbidy replied, sounding bored.

"Glad I could strike a nerve, Zeb," Sands said placidly. "However, I wouldn't get too excited if I were you because . . . if anything _does_ happen and _you_ get killed, then it'll be _my_ ass. So we're going to a shooting range to make sure none of that happens." He looked at her pointedly in the rearview mirror and proposed the timeless question, "Can ya dig it?"

Zebbidy met his eyes in the mirror and she looked directly into them when she replied in her soft, cool voice.

"I can dig it."

* * *

"_In the town . . . where I was born,_

"_Lived a man . . . who sailed to sea._

"_And he told . . . us of his life,_

"_In the land . . . of submarines . . ."_

"I really hate this car," Lyn muttered more to herself than to her partner. "It's not even a car. It's . . . a big, nasty hunk of metal . . . painted blue." She shook her head, moving her head towards Liam. "Who thought of that?"

"Lynné . . ." he began nervously, "Lynné . . . Ly – _bus_!!"

Lyn rolled her eyes as she spun the steering wheel of the SUV, easily avoiding the oncoming traffic.

"_So we sailed . . . up to the sun,  
_

"_Till we found . . . the sea of green.  
_

"_And we lived . . . beneath the waves,  
_

"_In our yellow . . . submarine."_

"It wasn't a bus, it was a trolley," she corrected, annoyed.

"Still," Liam insisted, visibly panic-stricken, "we could've been killed!"

"What's life without cheating death every once in a while?"

_Calm, safe, and peaceful,_ Liam thought wildly, but he chose to remain silent and kept his wide eyes on the road.

"_. . . and our friends . . . are all aboard,_

"_Many more of them . . . live next door._

"_And the band . . . begins to play . . ."_

Lyn sang along with the radio, clearly unmoved by their near accident. She stole a glance at the paranoid Liam and smirked in amusement at the look on his face. Her partner's eyes were large with fear and his mouth was stretched in a silent scream. Glancing down she saw that Liam's fingernails were gripping the seat tightly, digging into the fabric. Lyn shook her head, once again wondering why on Earth the man in the seat next to hers had joined the CIA and who in their right mind decided to make him a field agent.

Eventually, however, Liam eased up. He even decided to join in on the classic song, albeit tentatively.

"_As we live . . . a life of ease,_

"_Every one of us . . . has all we need:_

"_Sky of blue . . . and sea of green,_

"_In our yellow . . . submarine."_

"Did you know," Lyn began as she drove closer to the corner she had seen Sands' car disappear down, "that this song was supposedly written about anti-depressants?"

"Really?" Liam asked, looking thoughtful. "Huh."

Lyn nodded. "Supposedly."

"_We all live in a yellow submarine,_

"_Yellow submarine, yellow submarine._

"_We all live in a yellow submarine,_

"_Yellow submarine, yellow submarine . . ."_

"Well," Liam said reasonably, "if you think about it, it makes sense. The tune's all light and carefree."

"And some anti-depressants _are_ yellow," Lyn added pointedly, steering the SUV down a second corner. "If you think about it . . . you could refer to the pills and call them – "

"Yellow submarines?" Liam inquired skeptically.

"_We all live in a yellow submarine,_

"_Yellow submarine, yellow submarine . . ."_

"Apparently," Lyn said with a little shrug. Suddenly, her face contorted into a scowl as she watched Sands' vehicle swerve to miss a little red Ferrari, causing the breaks to screech. "God, he cannot drive . . ."

Liam could only stare in disbelief as his partner pulled into a parking lot outside of a building titled simply _La Pique_.

"Stay with them," Lyn instructed carefully as the car slowed to a stop.

"What about you?" Liam wanted to know as he slid out of the vehicle. Lyn adjusted the sunglasses that rested on the bridge of her tiny nose and Liam saw her impulsively run a hand over the knee of her left leg.

"I've got some catching up to do with a few old friends."

* * *

"I can't believe I've had to going into hiding," Zebbidy muttered, cocking her small silver handgun and taking aim, "all because a family -- whose name means _fish_ in English -- is after me."

"In case no one's told you, Miss Samhain," Sands said, raising his gun as well, "they also want you _dead_, so . . . you might want to take that into consideration."

He sighed, massaging his eyes behind closed lids. The stinging he now felt was aggravating, but not unbearable.

**_Still wish you would've taken Zeb's advice, though._**

_Fuck off,_ Sands thought distractedly as he shoved a new clip into his gun.

**_Why? Don't give me that 'they obstruct my vision' excuse because you've fired a gun at night, in sunglasses, and blind too, bucko. Don't forget that. So what's you're real excuse?_**

When Sands did not answer the question, the voice took it upon itself to continue with an insult.

**_You really are a chauvinistic bastard, aren't you?_**

In an attempt to tune the voice out, Sands suddenly became very interested in Zebbidy Samhain as she readied herself to shoot at one of the many cardboard targets. He thought that having his eyesight back would put a damper on the voice during times like this. Instead, his recent gain had only succeeded in making it louder.

"Where did you learn to shoot like that?" Liam asked in awe as Zebbidy planted three bullets neatly into the chest of one of the targets.

"You think that just because I grew up in a place like Wisconsin, I can't shoot?" she inquired with a smirk.

**_You can't deny she looks _very_ good when she does that,_** the voice whispered evilly from some undiscovered corner of his mind.

_I wasn't going to,_ Sands informed it calmly.

"Where _did_ you learn to fire a gun, chère?" Sands asked, once again ignoring the voice.

_Slap him_, Zebbidy found herself thinking, _Somebody slap him right across the face. Does he really think he can get away with being that corny??_

Apparently Sands did, because Zebbidy decided to let his remark go. Shrugging, she answered his question airily.

"My father was very big on hunting. I hated it and he knew this, but that doesn't mean he chose not to teach me the proper way to fire a gun."

"Oh, well that's good," Sands said, nodding. "I mean, in the event that any of those . . . psychotic, deranged, Wisconsin inmates that I hear so much about escapes . . . you'd be able to defend yourself."

Zebbidy smiled up at him, a benign expression forming on her face.

"Well, no, actually, my father wasn't thinking about that. We don't have many escapes from our prisons," she explained to Sands as if she hadn't noticed his sarcasm. "You see, what my father _really _intended on doing when he taught me to fire a weapon was keep any . . . disgusting . . . perverted . . . little boys from getting too close. That way, if he couldn't get to them first, I could."

Sands smirked in feigned amusement.

"Is that so?"

She merely smiled again before turning back to the shooting range.

Meanwhile, Liam had taken aim and, with one of his eyelids clamped down tightly, fired. Sighing with the air of one who had been through something time and again, Sands strode up to his fellow agent to make a remark about his progress.

"Okay, Fusco, that . . . wasn't bad," he commented fairly, "but next time, keep both of your eyes open and . . . maybe, just maybe . . . you'll hit the target instead of the wall behind it."

* * *

With a small sigh of annoyance, Lynné stirred her strawberry daiquiri, glancing around her and occasionally tugging on a strand of her straight, chin-length red hair – wig. Catching sight of herself in the shaded window of the outdoor café, Lyn smirked. If she could get one person to ask her if it was a wig, then that would just make her day.

**_Yes,_** sneered her interior voice, **_because then you'd have a reason to kill somebody._**

_Hey,_ Lyn thought defensively, _I never kill anyone unless I have a reason to. Whether or not that reason is very good is of no importance. What IS important . . . is that there IS indeed a reason for their death, cuz if not . . . then I'd just be nuts._

**_Oh, so sorry. Thank you ever so much for clearing that up for me, Lynnie, cuz I was_ very_ confused._**

_Glad I could be of help, dearest._

She could almost see the voice rolling its nonexistent eyes but Lyn smiled nonetheless; one of her contacts in the city of lights had just sat down across from her and, judging by the look on their face, they were none too pleased to see the agent. Again.

"Hello," Lyn greeted politely.

Her contact's only reply was a sharp nod of the head.

"Amazing, Moreau," Lyn remarked, "you were a man of few words when I talked to you the last time but now . . . you don't say anything at all. Now that is just amazing."

"What do you want?" David Moreau (roughly pronounced 'DAH-veed Mor-oh) demanded shortly, his words somewhat hard to decipher due to his strong French accent.

"So much for progress," Lyn muttered, reaching for her cool, pink drink.

"Mademoiselle, if you do n –"

"Why is it," Lyn continued, ignoring Moreau's anger, "that whenever I go to meet someone, the first thing out of their mouths is always an unfounded accusation? How can you be certain that I didn't invite you here to talk, that I wasn't just in town and fancied a little chat with you?"

"Because you never want to '_chat_' as you so lightly put it, Mademoiselle Sands," Moreau spat. "Oh, you want something, but a simple conversation with some wine isn't it."

"This isn't wine," Lyn commented, pointing to her daiquiri. Moreau glared at her from his position across the little table. "But you are right about one thing: I_ am_ in need of something – something you can get me. And all you have to do is listen to what I have to say, and cooperate. After that, should you choose to give me what I want, I'm gone. How's that sound?"

Moreau continued to scowl at her but he did manage a brief wave of the hand that told her he was listening. Lyn smiled humorlessly, adjusted her wig once more, and began.

"You're in the Poisson family's good books, right? Being a personal friend of Édouard Poisson after all."

She saw the wealthy man shift in his seat before he said grudgingly, "Yes."

"So I imagine you spend a lot of time at their house – one of their many houses," Lyn ventured.

At these words, Moreau stiffened where he sat but still managed a response.

"I suppose I do," replied he coolly.

"Which means you know the location of at least _one _of their maisons," Lyn said, slipping into French.

"Possibly."

_Asshole._

"I guess what I'm trying to say . . . is if you give me the whereabouts of the Poissons . . . then I could make it worth your while."

"I am a very wealthy man, Mademoiselle Sands," Moreau said icily, "You could offer me any sum of money, but what makes you think I'll even consider helping you or your agency?"

"Well, if you're anything like my other rich associates you're always looking for a way to attain more money . . . no matter how high your income."

The scowl the crossed Moreau's face made Lynné want to break out in a grin so badly that she had to place the straw of her daiquiri between her lips in order to hide her look of triumph.

"I was there that day," Moreau said suddenly.

"I know," was Lyn cool response.

The woman looked positively conserved and unconcerned by the fact that he knew one of her deepest secrets, and this sent Moreau's temper flaring.

"I should have let you die," he snarled bitterly.

"I'm sure if you'd've known how charming I am, you would have."

"Oui," agreed Moreau, glaring at the agent viciously. "If I had, I would not have lent you my phone o – "

"Or stayed with me until my fellow agent came, I know, I know." Lyn gave him a pained look. "Moreau, we all make mistakes. Don't be so hard on yourself."

"You learned to walk again," he noted. "I would not have believed it."

This time, Lynné did grin. "Well now you can, Monsieur Moreau."

And she laid down a few bills for her finished drink, but when Lyn started to rise, Moreau stopped her.

"We both know what happed three years ago, mademoiselle," he said quietly. "Why try to hide it?"

If any of her fellow agents had been there, they would have thought that Moreau had a death wish for saying such words or for even brining up such a topic. However, none of Lynn's fellow agents knew about her little handicap save for Liam and Sands. And they would not have been surprised to see the young woman smile at her contact and rise from the table with an eerie aura of calm about her. What would have shocked them, is what Lynné did next.

"My dear Moreau," Lyn began with a little laugh of disbelief, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Slipping one hand into her long black blazer, she pulled out, not a gun, but a simple little cell phone and a scrap of paper with her number on it. Then she reached down and unearthed what made Moreau's eyes widen in shock: A plain, black cane made for one thing and one thing only.

Lyn flashed him a smile that lacked in cheer, leaning heavily on her cane. And her wealthy contact saw for the first time that she was wearing Capri pants that showed a (clearly prosthetic) leg. Lynné gave a little shrug as she turned to walk away.

"Who's hiding anything?"

* * *

Sands had been observing Zebbidy Samhain with interest for the past forty-some minutes, taking in the young woman's expression, her eye contact, her stance as she took aim . . . What intrigued him the most about Miss Samhain was her – insert dramatic music here – mystery. Oh, he already had a decent idea of the woman's character. Quick on the uptake, rather unshakable (at least when if came to his smart little comments), a bit dour, even, if he wanted to go that far. While Sands had been driving her to the shooting range, he asked her what she had done for a living before she had gone into hiding.

"Oh, I was training to be a doctor," she had answered, absently running a finger along the black choker tied around her throat.

An eyebrow arching over his sunglasses, Sands said, "So I take it your income wasn't very low if you can afford outfits from . . ."

Trailing off, Sands eyed her classy attire.

"J. Crew?"

Zebbidy had smirked in approval.

"Very observant," she had remarked. Sands shrugged and silence filled the vehicle. Then, suddenly, Zebbidy had sat up in her seat and her head snapped towards Sands. Brushing a several strands of her sweeping hair out of her face, she had asked:

"You're not –"

"No," he answered bluntly, already expecting her question. "My sister just has the same shirt in red."

One of Zebbidy's dark eyebrows flew up.

"Oh," she murmured, then – "You noticed my shirt . . . ?"

"That's up to your own imagination, Zeb," Sands had replied, smirking as he met her bright green eyes in the mirror.

If his words had any impact on Zebbidy Samhain's mind, he would never know. Abruptly after he had made his suggestion, the young woman had leaned back in her seat, resuming her slumped position. She had stared out of her window, leaving him alone with noting but the soft roar of the engine.

Now the woman stood before a line of targets, her right arm out in front of her, gun in hand. So far, Sands had to admit, she had been doing all right. She was a fairly good shot; if the situation should arise, she could probably get herself out of a gunfight, escaping with a few scrapes at the least. However, there was a big difference between firing at real, moving bodies and firing at stationary, cardboard targets.

When she suddenly lifted her unoccupied arm to grip the gun with both hands, Sands sighed in annoyance and strode over to her. Using both hands to fire a pistol wasn't wrong, however, it was much easier to pull the trigger if you used only one.

"Here," he murmured, standing right behind her. "If you're going to do that, it'll be easier if you hold it like this."

It happened in an instant. The moment Sands reached forward and laid his hands over hers, Zebbidy's eyes grew huge. Her vision blurred as hot tears gathered in her stinging eyes. All around her everything melted together into one swirling mass of color. And then, just as suddenly as it had started, the spinning stopped and everything fell back into place. The only thing different was her surroundings.

She was now standing on the sidewalk of a dusty street or a busy intersection. All around her, people were going about their business, walking straight past the girl with the long red hair. This had happened to her before, many times, though she had never seen the same location twice.

Why, _why_ did it have to hit her now? Of all the times she could have been struck, she had to receive a blow now.

"Hombre incorrecto . . ."

Desperately, Zebbidy tried to locate the source of the unfamiliar young voice. But before she could even spin around, someone else spoke.

"Sorry . . ."

Slowly, Zebbidy turned towards the soft, haggard voice. As her eyes swept over the scene, she barely contained a gasp when she saw a little boy being held at gunpoint by a tall man with a shiny, clean-shaven head. Still, for some reason she continued to move to the voice she had heard; it was terribly familiar.

Clad in black, small silver pistol in hand, Sands stood in the center of the street. Cocking her head in confusion, Zebbidy found herself drawn to the man's face. The dark glasses he wore covered most of his features, and what the large sunglasses failed to hide was soaked in dark rivers of blood.

Regretfully, Sands tossed his gun away and Zebbidy thought she saw him sigh a little in defeat. The bald man she had seen earlier released the boy, but raised his own gun and pointed it at Sands instead. But before the man could shoot, Sands held up a hand, indicating that he wanted the other man to wait. Then, in what seemed like the longest seven seconds of Zebbidy's life, Sands raised an arm and touched his long fingers to the dark glasses.

"Look me in the eyes . . ." he whispered hoarsely, ". . . and then kill me."

Holding her collective breath, Zebbidy braced herself for the worst. However, nothing could have prepared her for what was to come when the glasses came off.

* * *

Zebbidy had to place a hand over her mouth to execute her terrified scream. As her line of vision cleared, she found herself sitting on the cold floor of the shooting range with two anxious pairs of eyes peering down at her. She looked up into the set of ocean-blue eyes of Agent Fusco to see that they were just as fearful as her own, but when she turned her aghast gaze to the next man, Zebbidy let out a soft yelp as another scream tried to escape her throat.

"What was that all about?" Sands demanded.

"Are you all right?" Liam asked at the same time.

Letting out a little shuddery sigh, Zebbidy closed her eyes and pulled her legs up to her chest, wanting nothing more than the sharp pinpricks of pain to end. Biting into her lower lip, she was not surprised when a salty taste entered her mouth. Her eyes were burning so badly, it didn't come as a shock to realize that a few tears had leaked out.

"What the hell was that all about?" Sands wanted to know. His voice was as calm and authoritative as it always was, even in the time of chaos.

Shaking her head back and fourth slowly, Zebbidy loosened her hold on her knees.

"Nothing, nothing . . ." she whispered huskily. "It was nothing . . ."

She was lying.

* * *

_(glare) One of these days I'm gonna work up the nerve to inform Lynné that this is Sands' story, not hers. .o; Well, he's supposed to be in it more and she's just to be comic relief but Lyn had more scenes than her brother in this chapter, one of which was kinda pointless. Not really, though, cuz now, the next time you goes to a hotel, you now know how to tell if the mirrors are two-way or not. I forget where I read about that but it was recent so I decided to put it in here. )_

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**vanillafluffy: **I'll have to find that song; certainly sounds like it would fit her. And, yes, Mort and Shooter are definitely a lot of fun write. I've had to play them in a random RPG once of twice, so I know what you mean )

**Dawnie-7: **Actually, the Ninth Gate wasn't one of my favorites either. I didn't really care for the ending. But after seeing it recently I couldn't' help but think that (if I could draw people realistically instead of cartoonishly 9.9) the woman who played 'The Girl Who was Following Depp Around' looked something like a blonde Zebbidy. (shrug) Just throwing out a visual image if anybody's trying to picture her.

**The Gilatas Monster: **I can't help it! I'm cursed!!! o.o' The gory stuff from the movie just keeps coming up in my mind and then that leads to _other_ gory stuff and the next thing I know I'm coming up with another flashback or dream sequence. Vay iz mir . . .

**Savvy TBird: **Thank you! I'm trying to update every Friday and Sunday night and possibly on Wednesdays as well, if you care to know. )

**Invader Nicole: **Meep, I know what you mean. Everyone around here says Samhain the way it's spelled too. Ah, well, can't really blame them, I guess. Sands on the other hand . . . .9;; u.u Anyway, and I loved your IZ fic, too. Hope to see it posted soon! D

o


	4. Going Up?

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Four:** Going Up?

Grr . . . and once again, the first scene opens up with Lynné! I've already given two of her scenes to her brother (she isn't pleased but what're ya gonna do?). This chapter focuses a lot more on Sands, though. Plus, there is a lot going on action-wise in this one, too. Geh, why do I have to have an addiction for trying new things? .o' But I'm taking a stab at writing a semi-action filled story, so please bear with me. Responses and thanks at the end of the chapter. )

* * *

Weeks had passed since Lynné had completed her job in Virginia, and June was just starting by the time she received her assignment in France. Now, it was almost mid-July and Moreau hand only called her once since their little meeting way back at the beginning of June. The only information he had to provide was, yes, he _did_ have the layout for one of the Poisson estates, however, since it was their summer house, it was unlikely that it would be in use. 

"May I remind you that it is not June thirtieth, and that the summer season officially started on the twenty-first?" Lyn had asked in that official tone that let Moreau know she thought he was an idiot.

"The Poissons have _several_ homes, mademoiselle," he explained crisply.

_Must be nice,_ Lyn now thought as she waited for her contact to arrive.

She had always detested the rich, mostly because they thought themselves better than everyone else due to the fact that they were, well, rich. Not that she wasn't a little conceited herself, but people bothered her, that's why she was always short and strictly business when it came to dealing with her fellow human beings.

Still, being unbelievably, filthy, stinking rich _did_ have its strong points. Having her own island would be nice, and she never _did_ get that pony she had always wanted . . .

Sighing in annoyance, she let her fingernails drum along the edge of the table. The little outdoor café she was at now only served coffee, about fifty different kinds, in fact, but nothing even remotely alcoholic. Sipping her vanilla latté, Lyn skimmed her surroundings.

Three people stood along the sidewalks selling bread – no, no, make that four people . . . There was a place that looked as though it sold shoes as well as hats; she would have to look into that. The Eiffel Tower was just visible over the many aging buildings. Vaguely Lyn wondered if she could con Liam into visiting the monument. Even if he turned down her offer, which he undoubtedly would, it would still be worth it if he made that panicked look he reserved especially for topics about heights.

**_He looks so cute when he does that . . ._** her inner voice sighed. Lyn had to check twice to make sure she had heard it correctly. When she was certain that she had, Lyn nearly spit out her latté.

_Shut your . . . mouth! D'you know what you just --_

**_I know perfectly well what I just said, and since it was _me_ who did the talking, you don't have to worry._**

Lowering her latté steadily, all the while wearing a preoccupied expression, Lynné took this into consideration. For once the voice _did_ have a point. She hadn't made a single comment about Liam's visage, or his paranoid little quirks that used to – that still irked her. . . . though not nearly as much as they had four years ago. But still, she wasn't the one who had made the comment, the voice had. So there was no reason to freak out.

**_Then again,_** the voice said thoughtfully, **_I _am _part of you after all, and, as far as I can tell, I only know the things _you _know, which means . . ._**

Lynné braced herself, waiting in anticipation as the voice paused for a dramatic moment.

**_You li-ike Lee-am! You li-ike Lee-am!_** the voice sang in that obnoxious, taunting way that strongly reminded Lyn of her days in elementary school when the children would form a circle, a seemingly unbreakable barrier, around another child, laughing and pointing and chanting in that irritating sing-song manner. Given that Lyn had never cared for any of her schoolmates, save for a select handful, she still refrained from participating in such activities. And whenever _she_ happened to find herself in the center of the 'Teasing Circle,' those who chose to pick on her quickly learned the meaning of 'think before you act.'

**_Like that little snot whose Barbie doll you ruined?_**

_Oh, I only ripped its head off; completely fixable. And that thing was creepy anyway._

**_All she did was make fun of your _shoes**

_She called them _ugly.

**_They _were_ ugly._**

_That I'm well aware of, but she didn't need to announce it to the entire third grade during lunch. That was just rude._

**_Point taken._**

Suddenly, Lynné smiled and, raising a hand in welcome she called:

"Hello, monsieur! I trust you have what I asked for? If not, you have approximately five seconds before I make you do more than pay for our meal."

* * *

Later that very same night, Sands was stationed at a dancehall, a bordello, and a theater. Oddly enough he was at the same building while he visited all of these things. That was because the Moulin Rouge was a cabaret, a cabaret with . . . a windmill on top of it. 

**_A _red_ windmill. That's what 'Moulin Rouge' _stands_ for, genius._**

_This may come as surprise to you, but I was already privy to that._

**_Don't see how you couldn't be the way Zebbidy just _loves_ the movie._**

_She does?_ Sands asked skeptically, as he entered the ornate building. He passed through the bright red doors and into a hallway plastered with an ongoing stream mirrors on the walls and ceiling. His eyes flickering to one of his own reflections, but only for a second.

**Yes** the voice stressed, rolling its (as far as Sands could tell) nonexistent eyes at him. **_She was singing that song about diamonds the other day. And you can't say you didn't notice because I noticed. And if I noticed then you certainly did._**

_I may have noticed, I'm not going to deny anything there,_ Sands reasoned, _but how does that tell us that she likes the movie Moulin Rouge? For all we know, she could be a devoted fan of Marilyn Monroe._

**_It's the _way_ she was singing it, fuckmook,_** sighed the voice. **_Zebbidy was singing the version from the movie, which is different than the way Marilyn sung it._**

"Le droit cette voie, monsieur." (Right this way, sir.)

Sands smiled as the attractive (not to mention scantly clad) waitress led him through a second pair of doors and into a large, circular room. A stage stood at one end, but, oddly, there was a bar stationed at the other, and instead of rows of isle seats for the theater-goers, about two dozen round tables had been set up.

**_This is what I love about this place. You still get a good meal, even if the show's awful._**

_Depends on what kind of show you're talking about,_ Sands told the voice, eyeing his waitress with interest.

"Je reviendrai quand vous êtes prêts à ordonner," she told him, smiling pleasantly and handing over a menu.

"I look forward to it," Sands replied, grinning deviously.

The girl giggled, clutching her remaining menus, and hurried away to seat another man. Sands smirked as he leaned back in his chair, not even bothering to pick up his menu.

**_You really are a sleazy bastard, do you know that?_**

_Oh, come on. I'll bet she hears that every night._

**_Which is why _you_ should treat her differently. She _is_ a human being, you know. And just because she's got a nice ass doesn't mean you should treat her like that's her only quality._**

_You've been listening to Lyn again, haven't you? _Sands thought incredulously.

**_Of course not. And stop listening to me and start paying attention because your current object of interest is talking to the man you're trying to shadow._**

Leisurely, as though he was nothing more than a tourist wanting to observe his surroundings, Sands searched the dining room for his waitress. If he found her, then he could find Alphonse Poisson. And there he was. The voice had been right, Sands reluctantly agreed, about his waitress receiving 'the eye' every night. Right now, Alphonse Poisson was watching certain . . . areas . . . of the young woman a little too closely.

**_And this bothers you?_**

_No,_ Sands replied calmly, still observing Poisson and his waitress, _I am just appalled at the way he's acting. He may very well be a happily married man._

**_Alphonse Poisson isn't married as far as we know. And just for your own information, the words 'happily' and 'married' must never be contained in the same sentence._**

_What if you said, 'Happily did not even begin to describe the life of this married man'?_

"Est-ce que vous êtes prêts à ordonner, monsieur?" (Are you ready to order, sir?)

Before the voice could come up with a response, his waitress had returned. Her ditzy smile hadn't faded in the least, Sands noted as the girl continued to beam down at him, not even after her meeting with the sleaziest member of the Poisson family.

"I don't suppose you serve puerco pibil," Sands sighed, looking up at her questioningly.

The waitress bit her lip, shaking her head uncertainly.

"Je suis désolé. Je ne pense pas ainsi . . ." (I'm sorry. I don't think so . . .)

_Must be new . . ._ he mused.

Sands gave her what he thought was a reassuring look. Not that cared if the girl was uncomfortable or not, but if she showed visible signs of nervousness, his prey could very well become suspicious.

"I'm sure you make tequila, though, right?" he asked expectantly.

Her smile was back in an instant.

"Est cela que vous voulez?" (Is that what you want?)

**_More than that, honey,_** the voice muttered disgustedly.

"With lime, if you don't mind," Sands said aloud.

"Oui," the waitress replied brightly, and smiling once again, she moved off towards the ba

**_Careful,_** the voice warned, **_for all you know she could turn out to be Barillo's illegitimate half-cousin twice removed._**

Sands raised an eyebrow.

_Is that _really_ likely to happen?_

**_That's what you said about Ajedrez and look how that turned out._**

A pause.

_I don't recall ever saying that about her,_ Sands said at last. _And besides, I've got enough on my mind as it is without throwing something like 'love' or 'trust' into the mix._

**_Like your job for example?_**

_Yeah,_ he agreed, _very good example. __You know as well as I do that, this being my first assignment since – _

_**Since Mexico,** _the voice prompted.

_Yes,_ Sands replied, annoyed, _which means that the CIA is gonna be watching my ass. Therefore, if something happens to make my plan go awry. . . I'm screwed. I'm just . . . genuinely . . . screwed._

**_Aww . . . poor thing . . ._**

_The CIA will want nothing more to do with me, so they'll throw me out._

**_No more shooting the cook for you._**

_That's right._

**_And it all comes down to the girl . . . . You're sure the Poissons want her? Not dead; they just . . . want her?_**

_That_ is_ what our information tells us._

**_Yeah, well, you're information could be nothing but pure bullshit, as you already know, so I don't think I need to bring up that 'Oh, hey, Shel, I'm his daughter!' experience again._**

_No,_ Sands responded bitterly. _So you needn't trouble yourself._

"Un tequila avec le tilleul," (One tequila with lime), Sands' waitress said, setting his drink down on the table.

Sands complied by grinning up at the girl, whose ever-present smile widened considerably before she took his menu and left to serve some new arrivals.

**_So that's Alphonse Poisson . . ._** the voice ruminated. **_Not much for looks, is he? And he's supposed to be part of a Mafia family. Well . . . now I've seen every – ah, no. You've never been to Egypt, have you?_ **

_Yes,_ Sands replied as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, _When I was twelve._

**_Oh,_** the voice said, brushing this aside. **_then I just don't remember it._**

_Neither do I, come to that . . ._ Sands realized absently.

**_In any case, Alphonse is a sleaze-bag,_** the voice said decisively.

_That he is,_ Sands thought distantly.

**_You're sure that he can get us inside?_**

_Can't be sure of anything anymore, can I? But if it makes you feel any better, then yes, I've got a very good feeling about this guy and I'm sure he'd be willing to betray his family._

**_If the right price came along, you mean,_** the voice sneered evilly.

Sands smirked.

_Of course. There is no loyalty in today's world, as we both know all too well._

He watched as Alphonse Poisson accepted a plate of some foreign dish from a different waitress. Suddenly, the lights around them blinked on and off, flashing their bulbs repeatedly, indicating that the show was about to begin.

**_If you're gonna make your move,_** the voice told him, **_you'd better do it now._**

Putting on a façade of cool and collected calmness and picking up his drink, Sands made his way towards his prey, weaving through the maze of tables until he reached the one that a Monsieur Alphonse Poisson was seated at.

The man paused, setting down his knife and fork when a shadow fell over him. Looking up, Alphonse Poisson saw that the face of a man he did not recognize was smirking slightly as its owner slid into the seat across from him.

"Poisson?" the man asked. "Alphonse Poisson?"

Alphonse cleared his throat.

"Yes."

Sands' smirk widened.

"I have a proposition th –"

"I am in no mood do make deals with anyone tonight, monsieur," Alphonse cut in abruptly. Sands, however, ignored this and kept talking.

"– at I think you will find highly appealing after you hear it. It involves one Zebbidy Samhain. You know her?"

The mobster's mouth thinned considerably, but Sands knew that he was intrigued.

"I've heard of her," Alphonse said finally with a small nod.

Smiling once again, Sands raised his tequila to take a sip.

"Good."

* * *

Sighing wearily, Zebbidy slowly dragged herself into one of the hotel elevators and pushed the button for the eighth floor. She had just been to the Eiffel Tower and it had been very nice, the view was lovely, but after three times of visiting the monument she had to admit that some of the glamour had begun to rub off. 

As she idly watched the row of numbers along the top of the doors, each lighting up for a few seconds as she passed a new floor, Zebbidy let out another bored sigh. Four weeks . . . seven weeks and two days . . . one whole month . . . and a half . . . and already she was sick of it.

Well, no. Perhaps that was being unfair. Paris was wonderful, and she hadn't even seen half of it yet. Twitching her nose thoughtlessly, Zebbidy watched as the elevator reached the third floor. To her mild surprise, the little number three remained illuminated in a dull, white glow as a burly, hair-covered, greasy man in a rumpled suit that smelled strongly of stale cigarettes stepped through the opening left by the two sliding steel doors. Scratching his five o'clock shadow, he took his place beside the slender young woman, hands clasped behind his back, and glanced uninterestedly around at the tiny square space.

Observed in her own doldrums and slight self-pity, Zebbidy went back to watching the numbers light up. The man next to her held up a fist as though he had felt the urge to cough, but out of the corner of her eye, Zebbidy saw him as he got ready to bring it crashing down on her head.

* * *

Sands flung open the door and let out a disgusted sigh at the sight that met him. Several miniature TVs had been set up on every surface detectable, each showing a black and white image of a potential location in the hotel. Four were set up on one table, at least four rested on each of the two dressers, and one had been placed on top of the nightstand. The space that was not being covered by mini televisions had been taken over by other various electronics. Two laptops had been set up on the pair of twin beds and an innumerous amount of floppy disks and other software was scattered around them. 

_Unorganized assholes . . . where the fuck is Darling? Scratch that – where the fuck are any of those assholes?? Christ, this is my_ job_ on the line, you bastards . . ._

**_Personally, I don't think they'd be all that heartbroken if you were fired. Especially if they were the ones that caused it._**

_No shit, Sherlock,_ Sands replied distractedly. Head bowed, he sank onto the nearest bed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. Knowing it would make him just as bad as the incompetent he'd left to watch the cameras, Sands shoved the powerful urge to sleep aside, and began scanning the colorless scenes of the televisions.

A moment later Sands jumped off of the bed as if he had been electrocuted. Eyes wide, he stared at one of the TVs for a single second before snatching his gun out of its holster and bolting out the door.

_Fuck! Which one was that!? Which one!? Did I even catch the fucking number . . . !?_

**_Don't look at me,_** the voice said calmly, unmoved by the situation, **_I'm not the one who set up the cameras. _that_ was all the doing of your team of so-called agents._**

_Kids,_ Sands spat bitterly, _I'll be damned if they're not all a bunch of fucking rookies._

Running down the endless hallway, his footsteps completely silent, Sands searched for one of the elevators. It was an insane search done only in vain but he continued onward, passing door after door before he finally reached one of the shafts. Not waiting a minute longer, he jammed the 'up' button in with his fist. Several seconds passed as the numbers above the door lit up to reveal what floor the elevator was on.

Sands stared almost desperately up at the numbers, as if having a mental plea with them or trying to will the elevator to move faster.

_This is ridiculous,_ he thought, his voice flat with lack of hope, _Assuming that this is the right one, she'll be dead by the time it reaches this floor._

* * *

Zebbidy gasped as the gargantuan man tried to seal off her breathing. With one mammoth arm crushing her ribcage and both her own limbs to his body, and in his remaining hand he pressed a thin length of cord around her throat. 

Her vision went clouded as pearly drifts of fog crawled into her eyes. Everything in her head began to collide, her thoughts crashing into one another, falling, rising one again and stumbling around dizzily only to fall over again as another thought came flying by. Feeling herself succumbing to death, Zebbidy struggled to keep hold on her senses.

_He's not here to kill me,_ she thought through her clouded mind, _He can't be . . . the Poissons need me alive . . . that's what . . . that's what they . . . said . . ._

It was meager consolation, but it would do. Fingers bumping against her side, she struggled to slip them into the pockets of her jacket as covertly as she could. Her muggy eyes widened in success when her right hand became concealed in soft green fabric and she felt her fingers brush against something small and cold.

The thuggish man was never aware of any of this. The next thing he knew, he was jumping backwards, howling with pain, after the spiky heel of Zebbiy's pointed shoe dug into his foot. Not wasting a moment, Zebbidy extracted a bottle from her pocket, wrenched off its cork, and threw its contents at her attacker's face. Blinking in confused, the man watched as tiny dried flakes of what appeared to be some sort of plant rained down on him, catching in his oily hair and on the wrinkled shoulders of his suit. He never had time to contemplate this, for a second later, the little glass bottle came hurtling through the air, hitting him squarely on the head.

After assuring herself that the man showed no intentions of waking up any time soon, Zebbidy allowed herself a sigh of relief. Her alleviation was short-lived, however, when the silver elevator doors slid open and she heard the distinct click of a gun.

"Oh my Christ," someone said from behind her. "Your handy work, I presume?"

Zebbidy turned around to face Sands with an expression of quizzical smugness despite her staggered movements. To her surprise, the agent wore the look of one who had been anticipating – _Or dreading . . . ?_ she pondered hazily – a particular moment in time, and that moment had happened and he had been left feeling thoroughly dehiscent, as though he had just resumed the pattern of breathing. Suddenly struck with inspiration, Zebbidy calmly began to quote:

"Here is the key to existence – are you all listening?" Her words came out somewhat slurred and a little haggared, but she still kept her gaze carefully directed at Sands before continuing. "Always . . . breathe. That's the basis of life, breathing. It's basically the basis. If you don't breathe – "

"– you die, yeah, yeah, I know," Sands said, dissmissivly waving her off.

_Oh, so he knows Durang too? That's interesting . . ._

"What the hell happened? Did you knock him out, or did he do it himself when he ran into the wall?"

Clumsily crossing her arms over her chest, she smiled coyly and opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say a word, the man behind her stirred from his slumped position in the elevator. As if with natural instinct, Sands raised his gun to fire.

"Put it back in your pants, Tarzan," a second voice, this one female, said from outside. A moment later, Agent Lynné Sands stood beside her brother just outside the elevator and shook her head at him. "The gorilla isn't going to harm Jane again."

She pointed at the man behind Zebbidy and, sure enough, they saw his head fall back against the wall of the elevator with a resounding '_THUNK_.' The short noise seemed to bring Zebbidy a step closer to her senses. Her mind clearing at last, she was finally able to digest all that had just happened. And it terrified her.

How close had she been to being in the vice grasp of the Poisson family . . . ? That man could have snapped her in half if he had wanted to. CIA agents surrounded her and yet she had almost been kidnapped, hadn't she? If that didn't restore her faith in the government she didn't know what did.

"Oh . . ." she murmured breathlessly, "My gods . . ."

Muttering something about going to the bar, Zebbidy brushed past the two agents, her green eyes large and fearful, and disappeared down the hall. Sands glared after her and Lynné looked slightly bemused.

"So," she began conversationally, "what happened?"

Sands let out an aggravated breath, his dark eyes still fixed on a spot off in the distance.

"Call those fucking lay-abouts and tell them to get their asses up here," he told her, clearly irritated. "I'm going to the bar."

* * *

_There. I think that one had more Sands than Lynné. Hopefully. And also Moulin Rouge! D If no one's ever had the pleasure of seeing that movie, then go out and rent it – now! But please review first and tell me what you think. Thank you. u.u_

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**Dawnie-7: **Yes, Lyn's very stubborn when she wants to be. Also threatening. o.o;;; And that's what I thought when I read that thing about the two-way mirrors too, (forget where I read it exactly, -.6) so I tried to find a spot in the story where it would fit. Hopefully it'll come in handy if you're ever staying at a less-than-normal hotel.

**vanillafluffy: **Hah, I'm not saying a word about her seemingly witchy abilities 'til later. u.u And that's good about Lyn, too, because I never planed on letting her have a bigger role than she already does. Lol, I watched that interview Mr. Depp did about OUaTiM (where he said why he wore such obvious disguises) and figured I should put something like that in. (is now picturing Liam having trouble with a fake arm) XD Good idea, thanks!

**TheDmntdFerret: **Glad you like Lyn, Zeb too, cuz I'm trying to make sure she doesn't turn into a Mary Sue (or that Sands doesn't get OOC for that matter). I figured that in this story Sands would be the main character, Zeb's the co-star, Lyn's the semi-co-star but is really more of comic relief, and Liam . . . is just there. As usual. Poor guy. And I'm glad you liked the pagan refs as well :D

o


	5. Arrows Pointing Sideways

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Five:** Arrows Pointing Sideways

This chapter is named after a song written by a very good group of musicians called Donna the Buffalo. I have no idea how they got they're name, just that they make good music and that they're hippies. D I also have no idea what it is about this song that makes me think of this chapter. It's one of those . . . there's something there, yet it's impossible to explain without making someone's head explode. (nods absently) Yeah, that'd be it. Ah . . . anyway, enjoy!

* * *

Warm maroon and beige carpeting filling her vision, Zebbidy slid onto one of the round, elevated bar stools and placed her hands upon the swirling gray and white counter. Her palms were down, as were her eyes, and – at the risk of sounding melodramatic – so was her mood. It surprised her that she could feel so downcast when her elevator had been ascending upward.

'_Elevator goin' down, goin' down, go-ing down . . ._' she sang in her mind, and why not? The lyrics fit the distressing situation she had been thrown into. Sighing wearily, Zebbidy let her eyes run over the bar counter, trying to find shapes in the mass of ashen gray and foggy white stone.

_I wasted good thyme on that idiot too,_ she thought irately. _'Least it wasn't my hops; I can't find that anywhere anymore. Damn people destroying the environment . . ._

Distractedly, she reached a hand up to run her fingers along the choker she had been wearing, only to meet bare flesh instead of smooth silk.

_Damnit . . . it must have come off when that bastard . . ._

She couldn't finish the thought. Tremulously, she traced her forefinger along her throat. Despite her extreme care, Zebbidy still had to bite back a hiss of pain when she felt the sharp sting of a newly formed bruise. Reaching behind her, she pulled her long hair out of its haphazardly styled bun and draped it around her shoulders like a scarf.

_That'll hide the mark at least . . ._

"Que puis-je vous recevoir, mademoiselle?" (What can I get you, miss?)

For the first time since she had left the elevator, Zebbidy lifted her eyes upward. She didn't know why she had sought out the bar as her sanctuary. She rarely ever drank, and a hotel bar didn't exactly scream 'place of homage.' But right now the bartender was looking at her expectantly, and, in her opinion, he seemed like the type who would kindly ask her to leave if she didn't intend on drinking anything.

"Um," she began, never having caught on to the language of love. The damage the cord had done to her vocal cords wasn't helping. "Je . . . voudrais le . . . vin. . . . Rouge, s'il vous plaît." (I . . . . would like . . . wine. . . . Red, please.)

The bartender smiled.

"Une bouteille?" he asked. (A bottle?)

Eyes widening with her growing confusion, Zebbidy just managed to comprehend what the barman had said.

"Oh, non, non . . . Juste un . . .uh . . . verre." (Oh, no, no . . . Just a . . . uh . . . glass.) Zebbidy nodded mentally, almost certain she had gotten the words right.

"Especially," someone said, "if you need to keep your wits about you."

_Oh, goody. One of the people who let me down. Just what I need._

"Hello, Sands," Zebbidy greeted unenthusiastically, massaging her soar throat.

"Hi," the agent returned, resting his right elbow on the bar counter and propping his head up with his hand. On his face he wore the smile of someone who hadn't a care in the world for there was a good chance they had no idea what was really going on around them. This was one of those Sands expressions, Zebbidy realized, that was saved for when the agent didn't want people to take him seriously or think of him as a threat.

_Then,_ she thought in a low dramatic voice, _he moves in for the kill . . ._

Despite the situation, Zebbidy found herself fighting back a laugh at the amusement of the statement. It was horrible, but Agent Sands was a pretty horrible guy, so she felt no regret in thinking it.

The barkeep glanced at the two of them curiously, and, though neither ever knew it, both could practically hear the wheels in his head grinding against each other as he tried to figure the pair out.

"Monsieur –" the barman started, but Sands interrupted.

"I'll have a tequila with lime, " he told the man, not even bothering with French, "and – " he paused to steal a sideways glance at Zebbidy, one that she didn't return "– my lady friend will have her wine."

"Oui," the bartender replied, nodding once before whisking off to prepare their drinks. Sands gazed fixedly at Zebbidy, smiling almost dreamily at her, as if he wanted nothing more than to sit there in the woman's presence. His thoughts, however, contradicted the carefree image he wore.

_Goddamn, fucking slack-offs . . . what the hell was going through their heads when they thought they could just up and _leave

**_Oh, concern for your career, I'm sure._**

_Yeah,_ Sands laughed heartlessly.

**_Just be glad she isn't dead. If she were, you'd be screwed. Royally, cheese-dick, so just be grateful._**

Leaning forward slightly, Sands attempted to catch a glimpse of Zebbidy's neck, being as low profile as he could about it. She must have noticed, however, because she tugged on her hair, hiding her wound, but not before Sands had seen the mark. Already thin, bluish-yellow ribbons were beginning to form where the assassin's cord had cut into her throat.

"I take it you have somebody watching him?" Zebbidy asked suddenly, breaking through the quiet murmur of the other bar patrons and the silence she and Sands had shared since their brief hellos.

"If so," she continued, "I'm sure you'll understand if I don't have much faith in them. Hell, I'm surprised I wasn't already dead when you got here."

"If you were," Sands said, "then I'd have a lot to explain, wouldn't I? People would lose their heads, call the police, news stations . . . so, really, it's a good thing you're still alive. For me at least."

"Nice to know the CIA's so concerned," Zebbidy replied blandly, glaring at him with revulsion as she accepted the glass of maroon liquid the barman handed her.

"I thought they only wanted to kidnap me," she murmured after she had taken a needed sample of her wine. "Now, I may just be jumping to conclusions . . . but that seemed like an assassination attempt to me."

"Well," Sands drawled listlessly, "that's because . . ." He paused, shrugging as if at a loss for an answer that wouldn't get a shocked reaction. In the end, he finished saying, ". . . it was." He shrugged again. "That's all I can say."

"So what happened anyway?" she asked.

"A man entered your elevator and tried to strangle you," Sands responded simply, smiling once again.

_Could I be arrested if I just ripped his lips right off his face? I don't think anyone would mind._

"You know what I meant," Zebbidy stated out loud.

"Oh," Sands said, acting somewhat surprised, "you should learn to be more specific, sugar-butt. It does wonders."

"I'll get right on it."

Smirking and smashing his original response ("Get on what, exactly?"), Sands set his tequila down on the counter.

"If it makes you feel any better," he began sarcastically, "I've gotten Lynné to watch your attacker, so the chances of him attempting to kill you again are highly doubtful."

"Good," Zebbidy said in a falsely cheerful tone, "but you conveniently forgot to tell me how the goon managed to get to me in the first place. I was under the impression that by packing my things for France and leaving my life in America that I was being protected."

_And I was under the impression that this was going to be easy,_ Sands thought, annoyed.

**_You're saying it's not?_** the voice asked innocently.

_Not when my charge is nearly assassinated, no._

"Well at least we now know that you can handle yourself if something like this should happen again," was all Sands had to say.

"Assuming that it will indeed happen again," Zebbidy said quietly, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

Sands said nothing but retrieved a cigarette from one of his pockets, slipped it into his mouth, and began searching for a lighter. Zebbidy watched his fruitless hunt for a few seconds with mild amusement.

"You should try one of these," she said finally. Reaching into her own jeans' pocket she unearthed a small, hand-rolled cigar as thin as a cigarette. Sands stared dubiously, one eyebrow raised.

"You don't . . . make those . . . by any chance."

"Used to," she explained, "However, I have yet to find a joint that sells the kind of tobacco I like. But I've been told from several reliable sources that they're very good."

Returning his own hand-made cigarette to its place, Sands extended his arm.

"If you have a light I can tell you just how reliable those sources are."

Smiling slightly, she handed the little cigar over and began rummaging through her pockets.

* * *

Clutching a stitch in his chest, Liam leaned against the wall, gasping for breath and looking like he had just run a mile. This was an exaggeration because he had simply run from the first floor of the hotel and up half a dozen flights of stairs to the eighth floor. He looked from the unconscious man in the elevator with blood slowly trickling down his forehead, to his partner slanted against the wall across from him, casually examining her fingernails.

"That was fast," Lynné commented, not looking up.

Liam grinned tiredly, and, still panting, managed a weak arm gesture.

"What happened?" he wheezed.

"Someone we're assuming is one of Poisson's men went after our babysitting charge in the elevator."

"Did you get him?" Liam asked through gasps.

"No," she replied leisurely, going back to her nails, "that was all Miss Zeb's doing."

Suddenly, Lyn raised her head, glaring into through the open doors of the elevator to the slumped hit man inside.

"Y'know, that was low."

Liam nodded, still leaning heavily against the wall.

"I mean lower than low. That was . . . . buried twelve feet in dirt and then spit on low. Lower than hell low –"

"Lynné? You've made your point," Liam said cautiously.

"No, it was low," Lyn continued defiantly, "He attacked her in an elevator – I wouldn't even do that. But only because there's nowhere to run," she said reasonably, "It'd be too easy. Not much of an accomplishment if ya know what I mean."

Liam's eyes widened slightly but, after swallowing hard, he managed a short nod and an equally short response.

"Right . . ."

* * *

"We could just shoot him."

"No, that would be pointless because we wouldn't have gained any information."

"I can shoot him so he doesn't die," Lynné protested indignantly.

"He'd still be screaming in pain," Sands told her, irritated. "And even if he didn't, we'd still have a time reviving Fusco."

"I don't appre –"

"Oh, Liam, he was just being himself," Lynné said offhandedly, waving her partner away. Gun in hand, arms crossed, she turned to smirk coldly at the sleazy man they had retrieved from the elevator and tied to a chair in a spare room the hotel had provided.

"Je ne vous dirai pas de bâtards n'importe quoi," (I won't tell you bastards anything,) the greasy man stated firmly. Already a large, purplish bruise was beginning to form on his head from when Zebbidy's bottle had hit him. "Vous ne savez pas même qui je travaille pour!" (You don't even know who I work for!)

"Oh, but you do work for somebody?" Sands smirked when he saw the man wince at his own stupidity.

"Je ne l'ai jamais dit . . ." (I never said that . . .) he muttered angrily.

"Perhaps, perhaps not," Lynné said calmly, "but you did drop a hint that was _very _suspicious."

"Vous ne me recevrez pas toujours pour parler," (You still won't get me to talk,) the hit man informed them shortly.

"My, isn't he confident?" Sands said to Lyn, a smile tugging on his lips.

"Only until the torture begins," she told him solemnly. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Liam suppress a shudder. But where her partner succeeded in hiding a cringe, he failed to mask a grimace. Eyes pointed skyward, Lynné shook her head and turned back to her captive. The man (who must have been one of the Poisson's thugs; as far as they knew, no one else was out to get their charge) was all but shooting daggers from the way he was glaring up at the trio of agents (the remaining four had yet to return).

"Essayez tout ce que vous voulez,"(Try all you want,) he warned them, his voice low and menacing, "mais vous ne recevrez pas de mot de moi." (but you won't get a word out of me.)

_Won't I?_ Lyn asked herself, light with surprise,_Buddy, I could have your nuts for that._

"Well, if that be the case . . ." Sands sighed, shaking his head with feigned regret. After walking over to one of the beds, he reached inside a suitcase. A few seconds passed as Sands rummaged through the various bits of luggage. Then, quite suddenly, he lifted his head and turned to face his fellow agents with a sinister air around him. Glancing from Liam to Lynné, he grinned malevolently.

"Put on your rubber gloves, boys and girls." He tossed them each a pair from the suitcase.

"Things are gonna get messy."

"Oh," Lyn said suddenly, "well, Liam, it might be best if you left."

* * *

_Don't worry. They're not gonna do anything. . . . not that I know of, at least. And if by some chance I do decide to let Sands and Lyn torture their hostage, I won't describe it. Gory, blood-filled dreams, scenes, and flashbacks are no problem but torture is another thing entirely. u.u_

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**vanillafluffy: **Hah, true, knowing Sands if she turned out to be a relative of Barillo's he wouldn't mind offing her. Crazy, trigger-happy guy . . . 9.9 Oh well. He's cool, so he's forgiven. u.u lol, you're not the only one who says that. After spending a good portion of my life around a cousin who just puts on a Southern accent randomly, it's kinda rubbed off on me. :) ; Actually, I _did_ just want an excuse to hit somebody over the head, although I _did_ say what the plants were at the last minute.

**Dawnie-7: **Well, I had to steal her gun away from her and lock her in the closet, but I think you're safe from Lyn's wrath. Can't make any promises though. o.o; But I'm glad you liked the Moulin Rouge ref; I couldn't resist it. :);

**DragonHunter200: **Never thought of putting Moreau in any other scenes but now that you've mentioned it, I've thought of a few more – thanks! Lol, I always thought Liam had something cute about him in an Ichabod Crane-ish sorta way.

Liam: -.6; I only fainted _once_.

Lynné: Twice.

Sands: And it wasn't the last time, I'm sure. (smokes nonchalantly) u.u

Liam: 6.6;;;

o


	6. Another One Bites the Dust

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Six:** Another One Bites the Dust

Well, now I have not one but two people that smoke to add to my head (thank you, Zebbidy and Sands .O;). Actually, three, cuz Lynné smokes from time to time; she's just secretive about it for some reason. But, anyway, back to the point, sorry if I offended any one by doing that. Like I said, I came up with the character of Zebbidy about two years before I even heard of OUaTiM. Sorry if I sound dumb apologizing. I'm just making sure I don't antagonize anyone. After all, I DID just receive fustigation on one of my Invader Zim stories for a, uh, "skweaky swivel chair" (when there wasn't even one IN the story; person didn't even bother to spell my name right 9.9). I'm just being cautious.

Sands: You just wanted to say the word 'fustigation.'

Sidney: (it's true, so she is slightly ashamed) Yeah . . . you're right . . . (brightly) Fustigate: 'To beat with a club; cudgel.'

Sands: 9.9

Sidney: Or . . . Fustigate: 'To criticize harshly.'

Sands: (darkly) Goddamn word-a-day calendar . . .

**

* * *

**

The blaring sound of trumpets and guitars was driving Sands to the edge. As were the crowds of people drinking and laughing and having a grand old time while he sat in some filthy booth (crumb covered table, gum under the seats, the works) sweating his ass off.

**_Gosh, Sheldon, I gotta admit, when you go to pick a meeting place you don't piss around._**

'_Fuck off. I was told that this was "THE place" to go._'

**_Well, I think it's a little obvious that you were misinformed . . ._**

As he rolled his eyes towards the dark ceiling, Sands raised his glass to take a sip of tequila. He leaned back, glancing around the bar in annoyance. The Mexican fanfare he had been enduring for so long was beginning to grate on his nerves. The air around him was thick with heat emanating from the horde around him. In an attempt to relieve himself of his ever growing tension, Sands took one of his hand-rolled cigarettes out, intending to add to the thick clouds of smoke that had all but covered the ceiling of the bar, only to find he had nothing to ignite it with.

"I think this is what you're looking for," said a velvety voice laced with Spanish.

Sands looked up at the sound. His dark eyes met a small silver lighter in the hand of an extended arm, which led to a shoulder that was connected to a graceful neck with the beautiful face of a woman topping it all off.

'_Her file didn't give a description,_' Sands thought, impressed.

**_And YOU wanted to send somebody else to meet Miss Gomez._**

He didn't make a reply, being too caught up with the lustrous woman who stood before him. Long, reddish-brown curls hung loose, clinging to her, falling over her tan shoulders, and onto the cream colored shirt she wore. Accepting the lighter, Sands grinned.

"Señor Sands I presume?" she inquired confidently.

"Agent Sands, actually," he corrected, setting his cigarette aflame. "But you shouldn't go making presumptions unless you are sure that what you are presuming isn't, in fact, very dangerous."

She let out a light laugh that Sands didn't think suited her. Gomez seemed like the type who would have something of a lower, harsher laugh, but he could be wrong.

'_Or SHE could be putting me on._'

**_Paranoid are we?_**

'_I'd be dead if I weren't,_' Sands answered spiritedly.

"Are you giving me a warning?" his female visitor asked, a smile playing on her lips.

"It all depends on how you look at it," Sands told her evenly. "Are you Agent Gomez of the AFN?"

The woman's smile widened.

"I am."

She slid into the booth until she was only a few inches away from him, still beaming. It took several seconds before Sands realized that he too was still grinning like an idiot. His smile fell quickly when he cleared his throat and straightened in his seat. Sands took a drag on his cigarette, avoiding Agent Gomez's rusty colored eyes.

**_Simmer down, there, boy._**

'_Like you didn't steal any glances at her rack._'

**_Hey, did you actually SEE those things – oh. I guess you did._**

'_Yeah._'

"You may call me Ajedrez, if you like."

"I just might take you up on that offer," Sands said wryly. "That is, of course, if you're willing to risk your life to -- " he waved his hand in a mock-dramatic gesture – "save your beloved, soon-to-be completely overpopulated Mexico." He looked at her pointedly, breathing jets of smoke out his nose. "So I guess what I'm asking is . . . are you?"

"Of course," Ajedrez murmured, leaning closer to him.

**_Take her. TAKE her, goddamn you,_** the voice urged, a note of plea in its tone.

'_Later,_' he told the voice, brushing its suggestions aside. '_Business first._'

**_Then . . . ?_**

'_THEN . . . we'll see._'

**_How can you say that!?! You being the sex-crazed bastard we all know and love._**

'_Since when am I sex-crazed?_'

The voice snorted in disbelief, but Sands continued.

'_I like to make them wait a little. That way, by the time they DO get what they want, it'll seen exceptionally good because they've been anticipating the moment for so long._'

**_Oh, I see. Very crafty, you know. You're such a ladies' man._**

'_I try,_' he responded inactively.

Just then, Ajedrez interrupted Sands' thoughts by reaching across and snatching his cigarette away from him and placing it in her own mouth. She inhaled deeply before flicking a few ashes off away. Sands stared at her with a mixture of sensuality and interest. This woman was intriguing, although he couldn't help but find her antics slightly annoying.

"If you don't mind," Sands began, a hint of irritation in his voice, "I'd like that back. That's the only one I had on me and I'm already running low."

She only smiled, but eventually realized that the CIA agent wasn't kidding. Looking somewhat put off that Sands wasn't playing into her flirtatious act as she had hoped, Ajedrez removed the cigarette from her mouth, letting a few of its ashes fall to the floor.

Sands smiled with tranquillity as he reached out an arm to take his cigarette back only to have Ajedrez pull it away from him again. She smiled secretively when he narrowed his eyes.

"These can kill you, you know," she informed him knowingly. "You could already have contracted lung cancer for all you know."

"I'll take the risk, mi querida, if it's all the same to you," Sands said irritably, reaching forward once again.

"But it's not," Ajedrez told him faintly, acting stunned.

In one quick movement that Sands was powerless to stop, she had lunged forward and grabbed him by the shirt, her dark eyes suddenly lit with a fire that had been dampened before. Her nails sinking into his collar, Ajedrez raised the arm that held Sands' cigarette. He looked up at her in alarm as she looked casually from the cigarette in her hand to the sheer panic in his eyes.

Knowing what she was about to do, Sands shut his eyes in a feeble attempt to protect them from certain destruction. His effort was wasted. Ajedrez brought the smoldering roll of tobacco hurtling towards him, driving it into his left eye.

The fiery embers ate away at his eyelid and soon began their attack on what was hidden beneath. Once the cigarette had burnt through, it began dissolving his eye like acid until there was nothing left but a charred black hole.

As soon as she had finished her job, Ajedrez began her assault on Sands remaining eye. He cried out in pain as the cigarette was plunged into his right optic. Ajedrez ignored him the entire time, too lost in the excitement of seeing another in agony to feel any regret.

Sands gripped the edge of the table, letting out a strained yell through clenched teeth. Throughout the entire torture he heard laughter. Ajedrez's laughter, he now knew. It fit her now: High, cold, cruel, mirthless. It was the kind of thrill one only got from watching someone else suffer.

When he was finally released, Sands fell back against the seat of the booth, gasping for breath and seeing nothing. Tears now rolled down his face instead of blood, but it made no difference.

All around him, the intoxicated bar patrons continued to laugh and drink and talk, completely unaware of what had just happened.

**

* * *

**

His eyes snapped open, wide in Sands' state of distress. He let out a small gasp when a dull stinging sensation shot through his eyes. Reaching a hand up, Sands rubbed them, wincing. When he took his hand away, his fingers were dappled with cold sweat.

Sands shook his head in frustration, wiping his hand on the cool bed sheets the hotel had provided. This was stupid. HE was being stupid and overreacting. It was now the middle of July and the Dead of the Dead was long past. His bullet wounds had healed and he had gotten his eyes back. Barillo and Guevera were dead, or so he had heard from Lynné. And as for Ajedrez?

He had killed her. He had shot her right through her gorgeous chassis when she had thought he was done for. He had been blind at the time with crimson waves of blood draining down his face and onto his neck and he couldn't see her. Yet she had fallen; he was sure of it.

Ajedrez had deceived him again, only it had happened sooner this time. This time it was their first encounter and she had flat out ruined him with hardly any fooling around. Oh well. At least this wasn't like the last time when she had made him believe she loved him. This time around she had been decent enough to come right out and blind him. That was nice of her.

Bitch.

**

* * *

**

There was an odd pressure against her mouth. She didn't know what it was, but something was covering her lips. Zebbidy's eyes flew open and widened in horror instantly. A dark figure loomed over her. One gloved hand was clamped down over her mouth, enabling her to speak.

Through the darkness that filled her room, Zebbidy saw the figure's perverse sneer down at her.

'_There were more of them in the hotel,_' she thought suddenly, '_Goddamn it, they probably rented a room and stayed the night just in case something happened to the other guy._'

Her thoughts stopped abruptly when she realized her breathing had been cut short. Whoever had pressed a hand over her mouth had now shifted his fingers so that his thumb was covering her nose. This process, while slow, would soon suffocate her.

'_Not today . . ._'

With one swift kick, Zebbidy had sent her new attacker crashing to the floor and jumped out of bed. Not waiting for the thug to get up, Zebbidy raced through her hotel suite, wrenched open the door, and darted out into the hallway.

**

* * *

**

At first Sands thought it had simply been a hazy after effects of one of his nightmares. However, he could have been mistaken, so he forced himself to stay awake for a few more seconds in case he hadn't been imagining things.

There it was again. Knocking.

No . . . not knocking . . . _pounding . . ._ **_banging_** at his door.

Lifting his head from his pillow, Sands began a bleary search for the sound. Even with his new eyes his hearing was still exceptional. It was like using echolocation to find his way through the dark. Now if he could only find what he was looking for . . .

Goddamn knocking, where the fuck was it coming from???

Oh, right . . . the DOOR. That made sense.

Reaching underneath his mattress, Sands pulled a gun out and, checking by its weight, made sure that it was loaded. After pushing himself off of the bed, he staggered towards the sound of the banging, his bare feet dragging on the rough carpet. He finally reached the door and, placing his hand on the knob, opened it.

Sands stared, perplexed. There was a woman standing at his door, gasping for breath and looking scared out of her wits. Her face was even a little flushed as though she had just run a great distance, although her room was only a few doors away from his.

Zebbidy gave no explanation for why she was standing outside his door at three o'clock in the morning. She simply pushed Sands aside as soon as she saw him and ran into the bathroom. A distinct '_CLICK_' told him that she had locked the door behind her.

'_What's gotten her all hot and bothered?_'

**_And he's using the term 'hot' lightly, folks,_** the voice said, as if speaking to an invisible audience.

'_Shut up._'

Looking out into the hallway, Sands eyes widened when he saw what had made his charge so distressed. A man, one of Poisson's thugs by the look of it, was thundering down the hall undoubtedly in search of Zebbidy Samhain.

It was too late if he simply backed up and closed the door; the man must have seen him by now. And even if he hadn't . . . Sands smirked maliciously.

'_He's still a danger to Miss Samhain._'

When the thug finally spotted Sands, his face twisted into a mirthless grin. The lean man in the doorway was no threat; he'd be easy to take down. Reaching inside his coat and pulling a gun from his holster, the assassin charged towards Sands who saw him as nothing more than a raging bull and he himself as the matador.

Remembering his speech about 'creative sportsmanship,' Sands had to shake his head. This wasn't creative, not when it was this easy. But nonetheless, his life had been so boring lately. It felt as though it had been wrung dry of all excitement and was just waiting to soak up some mayhem. At this thought, Sands grinned and took aim.

**

* * *

**

The powder blue, satin fabric twisted in her fingers, threatening to tear the hem of her pajama shirt, but Zebbidy didn't notice it. She kept her eyes to the bathroom floor, only taking in the white tile glowing faintly in the dim light, and the fuzzy pink material of the bathmat beneath her feet.

She kept herself alert, on the watch for any sort of noise that might give her a hint as to what was going on outside. Even the smallest noise would be rewarding in her hour of tension.

Zebbidy jumped at the sound of a bullet being fired. She had only just begun to recover when a second shot nearly caused her to fall off of the edge of the bathtub.

'_Oh my gods, is he dead? Oh my gods . . . if Sands was killed it'll be my fault for coming to his room in the first place. If he gets shot . . . oh dear gods . . . I might be sounding pathetic, but it would really help if I had a goddamn sign, here!_'

As if by chance, a rapping at the door echoed throughout the bathroom. Zebbidy's head snapped up, her green eyes fixed on the brass doorknob, as if afraid to tear them away.

"You can come out now, sugar, the big bad Mafia man is long gone."

It may sounds strange, by it was a relief to hear Sands' voice taunting her from the other side of the bathroom door. Zebbidy sighed and slid off of the tub rim, her eyes large and confused. Slowly, she made her way towards the door of the bathroom.

**

* * *

**

_Poor Zeb. Everybody wants to kill her. And now she wants to kill me for putting her in such a situation. But it's her own fault cuz she volunteered for the 'prime' role of the helpless damsel in distress, so to speak. (glares at Zebbidy) Fermez le bouche!_

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**DragonHunter200: **If I got somebody to wanna punch my character's lights out, then I have achieved my goal. u.u o.o That's the fist time a story of mine has ever been called educational (especially when dealing with another language) so I'm glad I could help! D And, yes, Ichabod is da bomb, no question. u.u Heh, ebonics . . . o.o

**Dawnie-7: **Yes, I know what you mean about Liam. He's a bit of a sissy (okay, he's a very big sissy) but it's good to know that I've portrayed him as funny instead of annoying. Why is he in the CIA? Honestly, I don't know. I'm actually hoping to figure that out in this story but so far nothing has struck me. Oh well. Hopefully something will. .

**vanillafluffy: **lol! It's true! I never thought of that, but it's true! He tried one of Zeb's cigarettes in the RPG I'm in and (little did he know) it had marijuana in it (cuz Zebbidy ran out of tobacco, or so she claims). Sands wouldn't shut up after he'd smoked it, and he kept going on about pixi stix and saying that everybody else was against him. Then he flirted with every girl in the RP at least once and Draco Malfoy flying around on his broomstick only added to the confusion inside Sands' warped head. -.9

**Invader Nicole: **(resisting urge to sing the can-can song because it is so annoying) Seems like everybody caught the Moulin Rouge refs! D That's surprising but I have to remember that it's unlikely that anyone who's read this comes from my town (where they, being the hicks that they are, are clueless as to things suck as Moulin Rouge or even OUaTiM for that matter). The déjà vu dream thing is creepy, definitely.

Sands: Don't tell me you've been roped into that bullshit, too. Sidney, I thought you were smarter than that.

Sidney: I'm very open-minded. (sticks tongue out)

Sands: -.o And very immature, it seems.

Sidney: Scoff now, but you'll soon see. (sashays away to work on the next chapter)

Sands: Fine. u.u . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . o.u o.o (hurries after her) Wait, what d'you mean 'I'll soon see?' What the fuck was that all about?? (searches for her, muttering) Stupid writers dropping hints and then disappearing – how the hell do they DO that??

Lyn: (simply) Magick.

Sands: (narrows eyes) Don't tell me they've gotten you hooked.

Lyn: (shrug) If that's the way you want it. u.u

o


	7. A Crack in the Door

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Seven:** A Crack in the Door

I know I've mentioned how Liam acts like everyone's favorite constable before, but lately I've been thinking about someone Sands and Lynné might act like. And then it came to me: _Dr. Hannibal Lecter_. For anyone who's ever read the books or seen the movies (The Silence of the Lambs, Hannibal, Red Dragon), you may be able to see the resemblance. Hannibal usually kills his victims in a rather gruesome manner, unlike Sands and Lyn who mostly shoot people. But either way, all three of them can just walk away after committing a crime feeling no remorse whatsoever. And while they're doing the murdering, they're all very calm and placid as they go about it. It's eerie. o.o'

* * *

"You can come out now, sugar, the big bad Mafia man is long gone."

Sands sighed angrily when he didn't get an answer. Leaning casually against the wall next to the bathroom door, he crossed his arms over his chest, gun still in hand. Sudden footsteps from out in the hallway told him that his fellow agents' sleep had been interrupted by the sudden shootout.

He assumed his sister of the silent footsteps was probably out there as well. If someone was kneed in the crotch four floors down and they let out a cry of pain, then Lyn would hear them. Therefore, she must have heard the shots he had fired. And Zeb had to have heard them as well. He wondered vaguely what she was doing while she was taking her grand old time in the bathroom.

'_Probably PMSing for all I know._'

**_And you know a lot about that sort of thing, if you catch my meaning._**

Sands' eyes flashed dangerously. Unwillingly, his mind took him back to places he would rather not visit. Hell, he would've chosen to stay blind if it meant he would never have to see that country, that town, or that woman again. But the memories came flooding back to him, wanting to force him to remember. Try as he might, Sands was helpless not to.

* * *

He stood outside the bathroom in almost the exact same position but in a different hotel room on the other side of the world. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, and waiting for someone to come out of the bathroom with growing impatience.

"Y'know," he had said, "I DO have other clients, all of whom are going to be turning down my offers and saying 'up yours, I'm outta here, fucker,' if I keep them waiting."

"Usted debería acostumbrarse a ello, entonces!" (You had better get used to it then!) yelled the voice of a woman. Her tone was slightly muffled due to the three or four inches of door between the two of them, yet the fury in her words let her anger be known.

"You're making too much of a big deal out of this, querida," Sands told her calmly, inspecting his fingernails.

"Es porque esto es un trato grande, ano!" (That's because it is a big deal, asshole!) she had shouted from her hideout.

Sands rolled his eyes, wishing she would stop with the Spanish. He had had to listen to the language all day every day since he had arrived in Mexico. From the gibbering peons in town to just about every one of his contacts, he had been forced to listen to them ramble on in Spanish and it was starting to grate on his nerves.

What he wanted to know was why everyone automatically assumed that he didn't speak the lingo. He could. Fluently, in fact. He just liked the feeling of satisfaction he got whenever he knew someone was going out of their way to use English while talking to him. He liked to keep them in the dark, so to speak, and lure them into thinking that he was just some stuck-up CIA agent from the good ol' US of A who hadn't a clue as to what they were saying.

"¿¡Por qué diablos le hizo la dejan entrar sobre nuestro plan!?" (Why the hell did you let her in on our plan!?) his female companion had demanded suddenly, breaking through his thoughts.

Glaring at the rough wooden door, as if trying to see through it, Sands inquired, "'Our plan?' Here I was thinking that the little scheme was all mine. Silly me."

There was silence on the other side of the door.

'_Gosh, I don't know, honey. Maybe I let Lynné in on everything because the whole idea is to get her out of this godforsaken country. And even if that wasn't my main motive, I'd still tell her about it._'

**_Ah, don't fret about it. You know she doesn't like Lyn, plus she's on her peri -- _**

'_I'm aware, I'm aware,_' Sands loudly told his mind. He sighed, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. '_That was a little obvious but thanks for the hint. I really needed it._'

**_Only trying to help,_** the voice had replied innocently.

". . . no puede creer que usted le dijo después de que ella pegó un tiro a mí!!" (. . . can't believe you told her after she shot me!!) his lady 'friend' had been saying when she unknowingly brought him out of his thoughts again.

"ATTEMPTED. She ATTEMPTED to shoot you," he reminded her calmly. "And, as I already told you, that's . . . Lyn's way of saying 'hi.' She's like that with everyone, I assure you."

Another pause.

"No confío en ella." (I don't trust her.)

"Nobody does," Sands had replied plainly. "Now that we've gotten that confirmed, why don't you come out of there and . . . maybe . . . we could have a quick one before I have to leave."

The door had swung open. Sands grinned, raising his eyebrows suggestively at the woman who stood before him with her dark eyes narrowed. Before any words could be exchanged, her hand lashed out. The next thing Sands knew, he was seeing stars and massaging the side of his face where a rush of fire had just grazed him. By the time his vision had cleared, Ajedrez had left the room, slamming the door behind her.

* * *

Sands ground his teeth together as the memory faded away, melting into the jumble of thoughts that was his mind. Why? WHY was this still happening? Despite his best efforts, he could not prevent those memories from unearthing themselves and forcing him to relive them. He wanted them gone, dead and buried, but the images of Mexico and Ajedrez and the Day of the Dead refused to let that happen. They were haunting them, and they weren't going to stop.

**_Unless . . ._** the voice ventured.

'_Unless . . . ?_' Sands echoed suspiciously.

**_You DO something about it._**

'_I've already TRIED doing something about it. No dice._'

**_I meant do something MORE. This is what happens when you don't talk this over with anyone. You need to consult someone 'else things are never gonna leave you alone._**

The door to the bathroom moved before Sands could respond to his voice's suggestion. It was open just a crack, exposing half of a thin nose, several wisps of auburn hair, and a single green eye stretched with fear. Sands felt his eyebrows raise a fraction as he stared at Zebbidy's eclipsed face.

"Are you all right?" he asked finally, failing to sound concerned.

Zebbidy could only gaze up at him. She had never felt so afraid in her life, and that wasn't an exaggeration. What she didn't understand was why she felt like this now. She couldn't remember being this terror-stricken when she had been attacked in the elevator earlier that day. Actually, after that fiasco she had merely been annoyed and a little let down. But now she was truly scared and hiding behind three inches of cheap artificial wood, stiff and petrified.

A harsh sigh on the brink of annoyance brought her back to reality. Eyelashes fluttering nervously, she turned her attention to the impatient man just outside her "hideout." He was irritated, piqued at her lack of answer. Answer . . . had he asked a question?

Yes, Zebbidy decided, he must have. But what was it . . . ?

'_Are you all right?_'

If that was it, it would make sense . . . in a way. Sands didn't come off as the sort of person who would ask a question like that, however his voice had sounded so callous and uncaring. The man himself was so cold he was on the edge of freezing.

'_Can't say he isn't attractive,_' she admitted to herself and herself alone. '_Damnit, why do the pretty ones always turn out to be unfeeling bastards . . . ?_

'_That's unfair,_' Zebbidy told herself, though she wasn't sure she believed half of it. '_I don't know him well; I only THINK I do. Though I can't remember the last time I was off about a person's entity . . ._'

She blinked, now unable to keep herself from watching the agent who was now observing something off in the other direction. Never one to care for long hair on men, Zebbidy found herself approving of the way Sands managed to pull it off.

'_So well, too,_' she mused charitably.

Brushing the remark aside as a simple truth, Zebbidy continued to study the agent. After all, they were her thoughts, emphasis on 'HER.' She thought them up herself and unless she chose to voice them, they were kept private for all eternity.

'_Yeah, right . . . and then you find out that practically everyone around you is psychic and the word "private" no longer has a meaning._'

Zebbidy let out an undetectable sigh. This really wasn't fair. Sands was captivating in more ways than one. She was sure most women ('_And some men_' she couldn't help but add) went for his looks first, but Zebbidy now found herself taking in his form, or rather his stance. He was only wearing a pair of loose fitting, black, flannel pants with . . . were those smiley faces? Goddamn him. She wondered mildly if he had chosen his outfit on purpose, but quickly shove the idea away with the label: 'paranoia.'

Sands' strange (if not slightly amusing) sleeping attire did allow her to view him more closely, however. The agent was of about average height, only a head taller than herself, she imagined. He was slightly muscular, but more on the slim side. In fact . . . if Zebbidy didn't know any better she'd swear he'd gotten thinner since the day they met.

'_Stress, maybe?_'

Taking a closer look at the agent's face, she noticed how strained he looked. Dark circles were painted just below each eye and he was leaning against the wall, but maybe that was just for comfort's sake. Other than the shadows, Sands seemed alert and ready, prepared to dive into action at a moment's notice. Zebbidy squinted, trying to get a better view from the pathetic hidey-hole that was the bathroom.

"What color are they? Your eyes," she found herself asking. She was surprised at how her voice had sounded. Her words had come out rough and haggard, much unlike the calm, silky way they usually were.

Sands didn't look at her, he only uttered one word in a low, voice that was almost a growl: "**_Why?_**"

Pushing the door the whole way open, Zebbidy entered the hallway, walking past him into the living room.

"No reason. Just . . . never mind."

As Zebbidy walked past the coffee table she spied several of Sands' own hand-rolled cigars lying on top of it. Letting one hand trail across the table with ease, she slipped one between her fingers and then sank down onto the couch, closing her eyes as she did so. Sands strode over to her, taking a seat in one of the armchairs on the other side of the coffee table. Cocking an eyebrow, he inquired:

"Light?"

"Please."

Sands retrieved a lighter from his pants' pocket, flipped it open, and in a matter of seconds a small flame had erupted from its end. Zebbidy didn't bother to wonder why he was carrying a cigarette lighter around in his pajamas aside from the thought that he was a bigger chain smoker than she was.

'_Or maybe he smokes when he's got something on his mind . . ._'

Sure enough, when she tossed the lighter back to him, Sands wasted no time in igniting a cigarette of his own. Zebbidy had no idea he had so many tattoos etched onto his body. She had noticed the ones on his hands: The three rectangles on one of his fingers and, oddly enough, a number three carved right between his thumb and index finger. But Sands' now bare chest gave her a clear view of the ones she had missed.

She was about to ask why he had gotten the one just above his heart, but the door that let out into the hallway suddenly flew open, smacking into the wall with a 'BANG!' that echoed throughout the suite. Zebbidy had to stop herself from letting out a scream of fright, bolting into the safety of Sands' bedroom, and locking the door behind her. It was only Lynné carrying a suitcase in one hand and a knapsack in the other. Sands looked at his sister questioningly.

"Are you finally leaving me or are you just sick of this hotel?" he asked.

Lynn's face pulled into a thin smile that was cold and mirthless.

"The latter. That and the fact that there are bound to be more of Poisson's goons lurking about, so unless we hightail it outta here –" she swung the knapsack up over her shoulder "– our ass is grass."

"Well, since I have no desire to have my ass turned into a lawn, I guess I'm going with you."

"Knew I wouldn't be able to get rid of you." Lyn shook her head in mock defeat. "All right, get your things together. You too, Miss Samhain."

"Are the others getting the equipment together?" Sands asked, starting to rise from the armchair.

Lyn snorted. "Those incompetents? Not here."

"Not here?" Sands repeated. "Meaning what?"

"Meaning . . . that their miserable little beings are no longer at this hotel. Probably dead, judging by the way my luck runs." She let out a small sigh with a shrug to go with it. "Oh well. Nothing lost."

Catching the expression on her face, she added reassuringly, "Don't be like that, you know it's true.

Sauntering over to her brother, she snatched the cigarette from between his fingers, put it in her own mouth, and, inhaling with deep relief, turned to leave.

"I'll be in the car."

* * *

Because he had taken his contacts out before he went to bed and since he flat-out refused to wear his glasses unless it was absolutely required, Sands goaded Liam into driving while he sat in the back with Lynné and Zebbidy. Both women sat on either side of him, the latter on his right and the former on his left. Zebbidy had her head pressed against the cool glass of the window as summer rain spattered against it.

"If those other agents are missing . . . shouldn't you be calling your boss . . . employers . . . whatever-the-hell-ya-call-'ems?" she murmured, her green eyes still focused on the rain outside.

"That's what I was debating over," Lyn told her, rubbing the bit of skin between her two dark eyebrows.

"Debating?" Zebbidy turned her head to the other woman, eyeing her with confusion.

"She usually debates before doing anything," Liam explained while Lynné mimed shooting an invisible person (undoubtedly some random CIA worker) in the head. He didn't think his partner would adapt well to having some half-a-stranger know how much she distrusted the CIA. If Zebbidy knew that (about Lyn or Sands) it would lead to questions, which would lead to explanations, which would lead to many, many uncomfortable events.

"So," Zebbidy said shortly, "how big are my chances of being assassinated again?"

"Well, not very if we find the right place to move you to," Sands told her, taking a cigarette from his pocket.

"To where exactly? Venice?"

"No," he replied, cigarette dangling from his mouth, "that's what the Poissons would expect. So you're staying in Paris."

"Oh."

'_I'm never gonna get to go to Italy again . . ._'

"We're just relocating you," Sands was saying while he lit up.  
  
Looking even more dejected, Zebbidy sighed, "Another hotel . . ."

Sands shook his head, abandoning his search.

"Hopefully not."

"Oh," Zebbidy murmured again, appearing mildly stunned. "So . . . where are you sending me?"

"That's what I was wondering," Sands murmured, glancing sideways at Lynné, who let out an annoyed breath.

"Well . . . Dad's got that "friend of the family" with the small flat just outside of Paris, doesn't he? It's their summerhouse. I'm thinking that if we call them up and tell 'em who it is, that they'll be willing to give us a hand and hopefully without question."

"What if they do?" Liam asked from the driver's seat.

Lyn sighed, rolling her intense brown eyes in disdain.

"They won't if we tell them that we just arrived in Paris, can't find a hotel, and were wondering if we could use their place for the night."

Liam appeared a little stunned, though he supposed he shouldn't have been. After spending close to four years around Lynné, he thought he would have been used to the way she could whip up such believable lies on the spot.

He squinted, trying to see through the rain that was cluttering on the windshield. It was coming down harder now, falling in sheets and obstructing his vision, making it difficult to drive. But perhaps that was a good thing: If HE could barely see, then no one else could be fairing any better. And if they were being followed by more of Poisson's men, then the summer storm should be looked upon as a good thing.

"Hello, Mrs. Demio?" Lyn said into her cell phone. "This is Lynné Sands. I – yes, yes, the very same. Sorry I ruined your petunias but, I was ten at the time, so -- well, actually I'm not in the US at the moment. I'm in France, Paris, actually. . . . . Oh, it's just a vacation."

Covering the mouthpiece of the phone, Lyn muttered, "Nosey old bitch . . ." before returning to her conversation.

"What was that, Mrs. Demio? . . . . . Oh, well, actually we couldn't find a place to stay. . . . yeah, had a room booked at the Saint James, but when we got there, they'd given our rooms away to some celebrity, I forget who . . . . Oh, no, it probably wasn't him. I read somewhere that he's got his own place in Paris. A couple of places, actually. Anyway," Lyn pressed on, rolling her eyes yet managing to remain polite and completely civil towards her father's friend. "It's late, and no matter where we go, everywhere is booked – yes, that's EXACTLY what I was wondering. I hope I'm not being too imposing if I ask . . ."

Sands shook his head at her. His eyes wandered to his watch: 4:38 AM. Christ, no wonder his eyes were burning. Take too much time with the contacts in, combine it with sleep deprivation, add a dash of cigarette smoke in an enclosed space (like Fusco's SUV, for example), and he may as well have just set the bastards on fire.

If Lyn DID manage to cajole aging Mrs. Demio into lending them her place in Paris, then the first thing he was going to do was sleep. He didn't care if he only got through the front door and then conked out, he was going to sleep, damnit. Besides, if he didn't sooner or later, Lyn would start getting concerned and MAKE him go to bed. As much as he hated to admit it, his sister was one person he found not amusement in worrying.

"So it's all set?" Lyn was confirming, "You're sure it's not too much trouble? . . . . All right, Mrs. Demio, if you're sure. Thanks. Oh, and . . . I am sorry about the petunias. Deeply."

She hung up and smirked.

"I just had to mention that again."

* * *

_Poor Sands (I seem to be saying that a lot lately). He's probably not going to have as nice a sleep as he wants, but he will eventually. I just have to keep giving him nightmares because of reasons I cannot explain now unless I want to risk giving a few things away. I'm also trying to put a few flashbacks dealing with Sands and Lynn's childhood in this story as well, but it's a lot harder than you'd think. In the first story, they'd made sense, but in this one they sort of don't. But, like I said, I'll try to find a way to throw some in somewhere. )_

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**Dawnie-7: **lol, my sister's done the same thing on various occasions. She always seems to be under the impression that I took something of hers, which I didn't. .O; Darn those siblings and their unfounded accusations.

**DragonHunter200: **Hah, well, I'm sure Sands had fun offing the guy, anyway. Yay! I made somebody nauseous! Lol, sorry, but that really was the effect I was going for, so to know I succeeded is an extreme ego-boost. Good to know Zeb's becoming a little more tolerable, too. She's really all right, once you get to know her.

Sands: (feigning disappointment) No one's ever said that about me . . .

Sidney: (dryly) Wonder why. -.9

**vanillafluffy: **That's probably the only way you'd get Sands to listen to reason, too. (snicker) Whack him with his third arm . . . knew that thing would come in handy one of these days. I think he does worry about his eyes, he probably just thinks that wearing his glasses would make him seem less dangerous and foreboding, the stubborn bastard. .o;; And as for personal experience . . . (looks thoughtful) Hmm . . .

_Oh, and just in case anybody noticed, when Lynné was saying that some celebrity had taken her hotel room and how she didn't think it was 'him,' I give props to anyone who has an idea of who she was talking about. ;-)_

o


	8. Seeing Red

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Eight:** Seeing Red

I've been thinking (again). If Sands and Lyn had wanted to make things easier, they could've just broken into Mrs. Demio's summer pad. It would've saved them a lot of time, if you think about it, and it would've seemed more like the Lyn-and-Sands-thing to do. (shrug) But then that thing about the petunias came up in my mind (honestly, I have no idea where from) so there ya go. u.u

* * *

The house was lovely. It was more of a cottage, actually, but it had a quaint, cozy look about it.

'_Dear Lord, cozy?? I did not just say that._'

**_Nooo, but you sure as hell THOUGHT it._**

Lynné tucked the voice's comments away and gazed up at the home. It had a way of looking like something out of a summer greeting card and someone's expensive retreat at the same time. The house was made of dark wood and red brick with a porch that surrounded the entire building, which was nice because Lyn had always had a fondness for porches like that. It was surrounded by trees but not too many because the building was set on the edge of a field. People, Lyn figured, had planted the trees, there. They had certainly not grown naturally given their location.

Nevertheless, the many boughs and leaves, while not exactly camouflaging the cottage, provided the kind of privacy they would need. The house had many windows, but it would be hard to see anything through the foliage of the pine and maple trees.

Frowning at the heavily falling rain outside, Lynné began rummaging through the SUV looking for an umbrella. On her right, she saw Zebbidy ferreting around, undoubtedly on the same hunt. Up front, Liam had pulled his jacket up over his head.

"I'll get the bags." He started to open the door, then stopped, twisted around in his seat, and gave Lynné a quizzical look. "Do we have a key?"

"Demio said there was one under the welcome mat – very original," she added sarcastically, "but if there isn't, then we can always pick the locks." She gave Liam a smile, which he returned, albeit, weakly.

It was after her partner left to retrieve their baggage and head up to the house that Lyn noticed her brother's absence. Sands was still in the car, right beside her, but he hadn't said a word in quite a while. Arms folded lightly over his chest, head tilted slightly to one side, Lynné realized just by his posture alone. He was asleep.

Lyn shook her head, a look of amused disbelief on her pale face. Although she knew she shouldn't have been surprised. It was close to five in the morning, after all, and Sands never slept well especially when he was on a mission. The events of the Day of the Dead had all but depleted his chances of a good night's rest.

So when Liam returned to tell them that the house was unlocked, Lyn knew she would need to take care in waking her brother.

"Sands," she stated.

No response. Lyn rolled her eyes.

"Sands."

"Dunno if you're gonna have much luck," Zebbidy said, gazing at Sands with concern. "He looked nothing short of exhausted when I ran into his room."

"Couldn't keep your hands off him, huh?" Lyn smirked coyly when she saw the appalled look on the other woman's face. Zebbidy quickly covered her startled appearance with a cool mask of calculated calm.

"Not exactly, though I'd believe you if you told me that other women find it hard not to."

"Y'know . . . you two should really check more carefully the next time you assume someone's asleep."

Sands lifted his head and smiled at them politely.

"I'm flattered."

Neither women jumped, but they did look momentarily stunned. Lynné was the first to recover and she shoved her brother in annoyance.

"Ass. D'you know if there are any bumbershoots in here? I'd rather not get wet, if it's all the same to you."

"Bumbershoots?" Sands arched his eyebrows at her to which Lyn responded by rolling her eyes.

Waving an impatient hand she explained, "Umbrellas."

"No, no, I know what they are, but I thought it was bumpershoot. With a 'P.'"

Lyn answered in the negative. "It's bumber. Look it up in the dictionary if you don't b –"

"I believe you, I believe you, here." He shoved an umbrella into her hands and pushed her car door open. "Out ya go."

* * *

Liam let out a low whistle. "Nice place, though I should have expected this from you, right?" he inquired to Lynné as he held the front door open for her and Zebbidy.

"Of course," Sands said as he strode through the door after Zebbidy. "Lyn has to stay at some swanky, lace curtain place or else she gets her undies in a bunch. And one day that blueblood in her is gonna get her killed." He glared pointedly at his sister.

"And when it does, you have every right to say 'I told you so' as I have already stated," she replied. She turned back to examining the posh living room that was filled with Stickley furniture. Ornate little objects seemed to peek out from every corner, earning them a look of distaste from Lynné.

"Jesus, I've never seen so many tchotchkes (pronounced: choch-keez)," she murmured, picking up a small vanilla scented candle and examining it with abhorrence.

"Haven't heard you use that term in a while," Sands said, walking over to her.

"Just because I've abandoned my religion doesn't mean I can't use its jargon."

Liam gave them a curious look but said nothing. Zebbidy was taking in the room as well and seemed not to have noticed Lyn's retort.

It was raining even harder now. Water crashed against the many windows of the house, rattling them threateningly. Lynné let out a harsh breath. No sleep for her tonight. She looked over at Sands who was already testing the overstuffed couch for softness. Clearly he had made plans to sleep there the rest of the night. Fine by her.

'_But they didn't have to make the couch out of leather._'

**_Oh, don't start this,_** the voice groaned.

'_I'll start whatever I damn well want,_' Lyn told it determinedly. '_If you don't like it, then you can get the hell out of my head'_

**_Now, now,_** the voice said as if talking to an overreacting child whose temper tantrum was about to go off. **_There'll be none of that, I assure you._**

'_Of course not,_' Lyn thought bitterly. '_How many cows died, d'you think, to make that couch? Too many._'

**_Oh, shut it. It's probably that plastic-leather crap, anyway._**

'_For the Demios? No, not a chance. It's leather all the way, baby, no question._'

Outside, the thunder rolled, but no one gave it the attention it was calling for. Somewhere off in the distance, lightning cracked through the sky like a brilliant white whip. Liam jumped, but other than that, nothing.

"I'm," he began nervously, "I'm going to bed. I mean, I'm already in my night clothes." He gestured to his navy blue pajama bottoms and plain white T-shirt, then made a timid motion toward the ceiling. "Upstairs?"

"Go and find out," Lynné said with a shrug. "I'm gonna check out the rest of the house."

That said, she left. Zebbidy turned to face Liam.

"Guess I'll go with you. Doubt I'll be able to sleep, though."

Taking a suitcase in each hand, she followed Liam up the stairs. Now only Sands was left in the living room, left in the dark save for one dim lamp Lynné had turned on. As soon as he was certain that he was alone in the living room, he pulled the afghan off of the back of the couch, threw it around himself, and all but collapsed on the piece of furniture. The leather of the couch was surprisingly warm beneath his body.

Outside the lightning pierced through the thick clouds that blanketed the sky and the thunder growled threateningly, but Sands heard none of it. In a matter of seconds after he had laid down on the couch, he had become lost in a fitful sleep.

* * *

"No, listen, you don't understand, the mission has been compromised . . . . . . . ."

"What do you mean compromised, Lynné?" said the bored voice on the other end of the phone.

"Compromised, what the hell do you think it means, fuckmook?" Lynné spat at the man, Agent Harrington, her so-called 'superior.' "They know, the cartel know, okay? Do you hear me, dumbass? . . . . . ."

"They know?" Harrington gasped, though he didn't sound completely convinced.

"Yes, yes, that's right. Good boy, you figured that out all by yourself?"

"Yes, Lynné, I think it's obvious that I DID."

"Aww . . ." Lyn cooed at him before becoming serious again. "So listen, I need people out here."

"Lynné, I don't think that –"

"The team you sent me with is worthless," Lyn continue, "and you know it. So I'm gonna need some more guys out here, get me weapons, tanks, the whole nine yards – "

"That might not be possi –"

"This is gonna be D-Day all over again unless you get your rears in gear and do something -- Hello?"

The line was dead.

"He-hello?"

Snapping her cell phone shut, Lyn stared out at the crowded Mexican street. The people around her went about their business, not knowing that these were the last moments of their lives – the last moments of HER life if she didn't get the hell out of there.

'_Goddamn it, why the fuck would they DO that!?_' she all but screamed in her mind. The voice let out a mirthless cackle.

**_Well I don't know why you're surprised. They probably just figured that this was it. They're big chance to get rid of you._**

'_No.' _She shook her head, refusing to believe it. The voice was baiting her, that was all.

"Okay . . . stay calm, breathe . . . breathe . . . just . . . don't . . . freak . . . out." She took in a deep breath. "Okay . . ."

**_Face it, Lynnie, they wanted rid of you. And this is just a prime chance to do it._**

'_No, they sent me to Mexico where they could get me out of their hair, but keep me happy because I could have total control of the country And I do. I can do whatever the hell I want, which is just fine by me._'

**_No it isn't. It isn't, Lynnie. You hate Mexico. You could leave right now. Run away and never look back._**

******_But here's the thing: The CIA . . . they KNOW that. They know what you're like, Lynné. And they knew that you weren't going to stay here for long. Whether you did your job or not, you weren't going to stay here . . . and they KNEW that._**

'_They don't want me back,_' she thought in hushed tones. '_They know I'm nuts, that I don't play by the rules --_'

**_-- you play to win. There's nothing WRONG with that --_**

'_— but the Cleavage Inspection Agency will have none of that. They want an obedient, LOYAL agent, not a dangerously psychotic, sociopath one who wouldn't think twice about turning her back on them._'

**_But since they really couldn't do anything about that --_**

'_They sent me to Mexico . . ._'

**_But you couldn't stay in Mexico forever._**

'_So when the Barillo cartel found out about me . . ._'

**_And what you were going to do . . ._**

'_. . . the CIA had a fuckin' field day._'

**_Probably jumped for joy, the bastards._**

'_Oh my Christ . . .I've been . . ._'

She could not go on, so the voice finished for her.

**_Burned, baby, burned._**

Then the long black limousine rolled to a stop in front of her, and Lynné knew it was all over.

* * *

An odd tapping sound was what awoke Liam from his sleep. He tried to see where it was coming from, but the world around him was blurry, as though he was looking through a camera that was badly in need of focusing. He felt dazed and strangely exhausted, although the clock on the nightstand said it was well past eight o'clock in the morning.

The light tapping was back and this time he found it. Lynné was sitting on the end of his bed, drumming her fingernails along the baseboard. Liam stared. Strands of his dark blonde hair had escaped from the secure ponytail that held them back, falling in his face, but he didn't bother to brush them away.

"Umm . . . Lynné?" he asked uncertainly.

After a moment of tapping her nails, she responded.

"I'm meeting someone at the Louvre Museum . . . and Sands has an engagement as well, however . . . he needs to sleep, you and I both saw that. So . . . I want you to meet his client."

That couldn't have been all she wanted to tell him. If she had wanted to make sure he knew he had a job to do, she would have told him later. It would have come as more of a shock that way. But then Lynn's words sank in, causing Liam's eyes to grow large.

"What? Lynné –"

"Sands isn't going anywhere until he's had at least four more hours of sleep, and I'm not leaving until I've made sure of that. You'll have plenty of time to get ready, so don't you worry.

"Besides, it won't be for long," she assured him with a little roll of her eyes. "All you have to do is make sure they're willing to provide their services. And don't freak out because this guy . . . he'll feed on that. He'll feed on it, Liam, so don't bait him."

"I, um, all right, sure," he said finally. He could do this. After all, HE had lived with Lynné for three years and he had survived that. And Sands' former contact was only human, how bad could they be?

"Sands is staying with Zebbidy, then?" he wondered out loud.

Lyn nodded.

"Where are they?" Liam asked curiously.

"Still asleep, I imagine . . . unless she's getting into my stash." Her eyes suddenly widened in concern. "I'll be right back."

With that, Lynné immediately flew from the room, leaving Liam alone to wonder if she had been kidding or if she was serious.

* * *

The hot sun of Egypt glared down at all life, but the small patch of shade that the towering pyramid provided protected him from the damaging rays. Grains of sand swirled around him, kicked up by the miniature tornadoes of wind that rolled along the ground.

Sands closed his eyes behind his dark glasses. Dust continued to churn, making him long for a drink of water, alcohol, anything just as long as it was liquid. Sands wiped the sweat off of his brow and dropped his hand to the ground soon after, almost as if he couldn't have held it up for much longer.

He felt tired and he didn't know why. He had gotten a decent night's sleep last night, hadn't he? Yeah, the bed had been uncomfortable but it had been tolerable. Four and a half hours was enough to get him through the day, right?

No. It wasn't.

The sunglasses protected his eyes from the ever-spiraling sand, but they still stung. It was close to unbearable pain, but he stuck through it. For how long he leaned against the side of the pyramid, he didn't know. It could have been minutes, hours -- Christ, even days for all he cared. All he knew was that when the sun rotated and he was no longer in the shade, it was hell on Earth from then on out.

Everything was red. That was the strangest thing. Not black, not white, or any color in between just . . . red. Red, rouge, roja, whatever you wanted to call it, it didn't matter. It was still red. RED. Now THAT made sense.

**_Maybe it's a sign._**

The words were quiet, plain, bland even. It was if the voice was merely making a suggestion. Perhaps it was even trying to help. Hey, this was a dream after all, why not?

He was sick of sitting there in the heat. His body was past the point of being stiff (now if just ached) and he wanted to leave. But for some reason, the goddamned voice wouldn't let him.

Fine then. If that's the way it wanted to be, then fine. He'd go along with it, play its game, and when they were finished and he had won, he'd get the hell out of there.

'_What makes you think that?_' Sands tested, trying to sound bored though, much to his irritation, his thoughts came out weary.

**_Welllll . . . think about it. It's RED._**

'_Red . . ._' Sands echoed hollowly. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" he asked aloud.

**_You like red._**

'_Who doesn't? The color red is the same as pie – everybody likes it._'

**_Zebbidy doesn't like red._**

'_Don't._'

The pain behind his eyes was greater now, throbbing every other second. Tilting his head back against the rough wall of the pyramid, Sands closed his eyes. When he opened them, the red was still surrounding him.

' _Don't start on that again. You know as well as I do that there wasn't going to be anyone after That Bitch, so do us a favor and drop it like a bad habit cuz that's what I did a long time ago._'

He was itching for a cigarette, jittery even, but if he thought his optics hurt now, it was nothing compared to what the smoke would do to them.

What would happen, he wondered mildly, if he touched his eyes . . . ? If he took of the glasses, and just . . . reached up . . . and touched them . . . would that throw him into even more pain, or would he find relief?

Probably the former.

But still . . . the thought WAS tempting . . .

Tentatively he lifted an arm. It felt like a dead weight attached to his body and was an increasing effort to raise, but still . . . he lifted it. He was so close now . . . his fingers had just brushed against the rim of the sunglasses when something suddenly caused his hand to jerk away. His arm hanging limply at his side, he heard the voice speak.

**_You like redheads . . . don't you?_**

'_Shut the fuck up . . ._'

**_You do, though . . . don't you? Seems to me you've dated more of them than anyone else._**

It was true. He did. But he wasn't about to admit anything to the voice; that's just how he and the voice were. When one of them was right, the other refused to admit it, even if they knew it. Just like that the subject was changed and the topic was only brought up once in a blue moon.

Funny how the blue moon looked red tonight.

'_I don't really have a favorite, you know. True I've been with more redheads than brunettes and more brunettes than blondes but their hair color wasn't the reason. Hey, as long as their tits are to my liking, who cares what color their hair is?_'

**_Fickle._**

'_Bite me,_' Sands hissed.

The temptation was too strong now. He had to do it, had to know. Why wasn't important. Maybe he just wanted to know if they were still there, still intact. He didn't know. And frankly, he didn't care. But action was the enemy of thought, however, so maybe this would finally silence the voice.

With that single thought in his mind, he ripped the sunglasses from his face and plunged his hand into the raw, gaping holes in his head.

All around him, the world was silent. Not a sound was made except for his own screams.

* * *

He was falling down into an endless pit of darkness. And he was screaming all the way down.

Or at least he had been.

When he hit the hard wooden floor, Sands felt sure he heard something crack. But perhaps he was just being paranoid. Nonetheless, when he sat up, he almost immediately went over again when the underside of the glass coffee table met the top of his head. A sickening crack filled the room as Sands reached up to grab the injured area. Meanwhile, the sharp sting of a growing bruise shot through his left arm and shoulder.

Outside, rain pelted the windows, bouncing off of them with the force of bullets. Sands paid them no mind.

Carefully, he massaged the sore limb, his eyes closed in pain. He let out a small gasp as he gripped his aching shoulder. How long he remained in his hunched over position he didn't know. But a sudden cry from above sent him leaping to his feet and flying up the stairs. He now knew that he wasn't the only one who had been screaming.

* * *

_Just incase anybody's wondering, 'tchotchkes' is a Yiddish term, use mostly by those of Jewish decent. A hint towards Sands and Lynn's religion, perhaps? Ya never know. I just always thought the concept of those two being Jewish was funny. (shrug) Don't know why. Plus, even though it's against the religion to eat pork, I figured Sands would anyway simply because he wanted to defy tradition. Besides, I think I had him say somewhere in this story that he really doesn't have a religion anyway. Like I said, it struck me as funny for some reason so I went with it. (nervous glance) Uhh . . . I really AM going somewhere with this – I swear! o.o;;_

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**vanillafluffy: **I know he has a place in the south of France, but I'm pretty sure I read somewhere that he's got a house in Paris as well. I DO know for a fact that he took my fantasy and bought his own island in the Caribbean. Lol, and you SHOULD capitalize the pronoun because he IS a divine being, after all. u.u

**SavvyTBird: **lol, thanks, glad ya liked the reference – I should've known people would've figured it out. D

**DragonHunter200: **Try as I might, I can't get that boy to stop smoking! .o I think he's actually smoking more in this story than the last one. 9.9;;;; Keith Richards (snicker) I read somewhere that he's gonna play Captain Jack's father in the next movie but it might just be a rumor. Like I said, it's hard fitting in childhood memories into this story, but I'm trying! )

**Dawnie-7: **lol, the petunias are probably what saved Lyn and Sands from the trouble of breaking into Mrs. Demio's summer place. Really, I don't know what Lyn did to them, but in all honesty I don't wanna know. o.o' Some things are best kept buried (no flower-pun intended u.u).

o


	9. Nobody's Perfect

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Nine:** Nobody's Perfect

This chapter has a bit of something for everybody.

Everybody: (extremely bored) Yay. -.-

Sidney: This is because at least everyone has their own scene!

Everybody: -.O (NOW she's got their attention)

Liam: (skeptically) Even me?

Sidney: Of course. (quietly and out of the corner of her mouth) In his scene, his antics really remind me of something Ichabod Crane would do. X3

Liam: What?

Sidney: Nothing you haven't heard before, dear. u.u

* * *

"You have no one, you know that, don't you?"

"Yes . . ."

"Look at me when I am speaking to you."

Zebbidy lifted her head a meager fraction of inch to stare into the cold, gray eyes of her grandfather.

"I repeat," he started, "you have no one, and you have lived comfortably in this house since you were six, therefore running away should be a waste of effort. Yet . . . . you left anyway."

Her eyes quickly returned to the black-and-white floor. She could still see her grandfather's wavy image reflected in the gleaming tiles. Though his words were calm, his reflection told her everything she needed to know: He was furious.

"I took you in, Zebbidy Samhain," he said sternly, "and what is your repayment? You run away."

"Sir, I didn't mean – "

"You DID mean to, Zebbidy, there is no way you could have mistaken your actions for anything else."

He paused, studying the young girl before him. She was almost eleven but so small that her tiny body was nearly hidden by a mane of long red hair. Half concealed by heavy lids, her vibrant green eyes – so much like her mother's – could not be seen.

"Why did you leave?" he asked severely.

"I . . . only wanted . . . to be out . . . of the house," she added quickly. "I-I needed some air."

"And for that you had to go to la Cote de Azure?" her grandfather demanded.

Zebbidy winced but said nothing. She had no explanation for this other than the one he had already figured out, and that one could lead to trouble for her.

'_But I only wanted to help! Those people were in danger and I saw them!_'

"I'm sure you know that you will need to be punished for your misbehavior."

"Yes."

'_But I can't tell about anything like that . . . he wouldn't understand . . ._'

"Go to your room," her grandfather commanded, glaring down at the small girl.

She looked up suddenly. Her grandfather's steely glare never wavered. He continued to pierce her with his eyes in a way that should have brought her to tears, but Zebbidy stood her ground.

"For how long?" she asked charily.

"When I think that you deserve sunlight. Until that time, you know the rules. You know what you are to do."

She bobbed her head once to show she understood. Her grandfather dismissed her with a flick of his hand and a single word:

"Go."

Zebbidy hurried away without another word. She knew her fate before her grandfather's men had found her. She was to go to her bedroom and stay put. She was to see no one and someone would be stationed outside her door to ensure that. She would be given her meals regularly but she was to eat them in her room and not with the rest of her family.

'_They're not my family,_' she reminded herself plainly.

How long she was to remain a captive in her own bedroom was beyond her. It all depended on how bad she had been. Though helping someone didn't qualify as 'being bad' in her eyes, it was a different story to her uncle.

'_He gets upset over the smallest things,_' she thought as she pulled open the door to her bedroom. She could be locked in that room for hours or days, possibly weeks.

'_Leaving the house without guards WAS wrong . . ._'

She sat down on her bed, staring at the soft, berry colored carpeting below her.

'_But I left for good reason! I saw something and went out to find it. And I did and . . . I helped them . . . why does that call for punishment?_'

'_It doesn't,_' she told herself firmly. '_Grandfather is overreacting like usual._'

And he would have been angrier if he knew she had been out sacrificing her time for others, she thought spitefully. Her grandfather always found something wrong with her, no matter what she did.

'_And I am _not_ being melodramatic about that,_' she thought stubbornly.

He was constantly comparing her to her cousins and making remarks about her achievements, calling them shoddy and saying they 'weren't up to his standards.' What _were_ his standards? Perfection?

"There's no such thing," she murmured quietly. And there wasn't. People used words like 'perfect' and 'perfection' to describe many things but it wasn't true. Yes, something might be rather amazing, brilliant, excellent, ideal, but nothing was perfect.

"There's no such thing," Zebbidy said again, this time louder.

"There's no such thing . . ."

And again.

"There's no such thing . . . "

Again – louder.

"_There's no such thing_ . . . !"

Louder. Just saying it wasn't enough. She needed to yell it, scream it so somebody would hear.

"There's no such thing!"

Maybe they would even tell her grandfather.

"_There's no such thing!_"

Maybe it would be her grandfather who heard it. She hoped so, even though saying such things were bound to result in worse punishment than this. Her grandfather would kill her cat or maybe even her horse if he thought it would help her see reason, make her 'perfect' for him.

"**_THERE'S – NO – SUCH – THING_**!!!"

* * *

She was being shaken severely. Someone had taken her by the shoulders and was rocking her body back and forth as if trying to wake her. But she wasn't asleep . . . they just wanted her to admit she was wrong. There was such a thing as perfection and she wasn't it. But she could be, with a little persuasion.

"NO! It doesn't exist! You're deluded and you know it!"

"Damnit, Zebbidy, snap the fuck out of it," an angry voice ordered, "Now is not the time to have a mental breakdown on me."

"I'm NOT having a breakdown – I'm telling the truth!" she yelled. Why wouldn't they listen . . ?

"Dreams rarely speak the truth, honey," the person told her exasperatedly, giving her another shake. "Now do me a favor and open your eyes."

Beneath the woman's fluttering lashes Sands saw brief flickers of green. He let out a mental sigh but did not release Zebbidy just yet. She could still be dreaming for all he knew and her rapid blinking could mean nothing.

"Almost there, chère, now just wake up." Sands could hear the prominent annoyance in his voice but he thought he detected a small amount of urgency as well.

'_Point? The last thing I need is her freaking out on me._'

**_But I thought you could handle crazy women easily. Look and Lynnie: You get along well with her and she's out of her mind._**

'_Lynnie,_' he replied tersely, _'is different. May I remind you that she doesn't have panic attacks? _'

**_If mental breakdowns were a common thing with Miss Samhain, don't you think her file would've said something about it?_**

'_It should have, but, as we're both so well aware, the CIA tends to leave out tiny details like that._'

Beside him, Zebbidy Samhain finally seemed to be coming to her senses. She was blinking slowly as she peered around the room, taking in her surroundings. When at last her eyes landed on Sands, a small gasp emerged from her lips and she clasped a hand over her mouth.

"Was I doing it again?" she asked, her words slightly muffled underneath her fingers.

"If by that you mean talking in your sleep, then yes," Sands answered, surveying her intently. "Care to tell us what that was all about?"

Zebbidy blinked, perplexed.

"What was what all about . . . ?"

* * *

"Y'know, I had to think long and hard before I even started to inch my way towards telling you that."

"Agent Sands, when your fellow officers go MIA – "

" – it is your duty as an agent to inform the Company of it," Lynné concluded. "I know, I know. However, if you recall the events in Cullican four years ago and how even after I told you that the mission had been compromised you somehow . . . forgot to send me back up? Remember that? What happened that day, Latch? Get caught in traffic?"

"Lynné," her superior began, a desperate note in his voice. Lyn cut him off abruptly.

"So I'm assuming we're speaking the same language now, therefore you can now understand why I was reluctant to tell you anything new.

"That is no reas – "

"All I'm asking for . . . is a few more agents – three at the most – down here. I'm not taking risks, not when I've got someone to protect."

**_Liar._**

'_Oh drop dead. He's lapping this up and you know it._'

"You've got a squad assembled near la Cote de Azure, don't you? Any chance of shipping a few of them my way?"

Lyn thought she heard a response but it was difficult to tell through the sudden wave of static that had broken into her conversation. She scowled in aggravation but decided that her contact had agreed to meet her, and if he hadn't, then it would be his ass if he didn't show up tomorrow.

"Listen, I'm cutting out, so I need to know if you can get me my team or not, capishe?"

She was only met with a fuzzy, crackling sound.

"Hello? Hello, can you hear me . . . ?"

The words flashed on the screen of her cell phone: 'Out of Range.' And upon examining the phone more closely, she noticed that she only had one bar left on the battery tally as well.

Lynné slapped a hand over her eyes in disbelief.

'_Goddamn you Liam for not charging up the phone . . . And goddamn you Sands for not reminding him._'

"Okay," she muttered aloud, "this . . . this isn't a big deal . . . I just . . . I just have to find a payphone."

She blinked, stunned that she hadn't thought of that in the first place.

'_Right. That's it, that's all I need to do: Just . . . find . . . a payphone_.'

She was standing near the middle of a semi-busy intersection, therefore a phone had to be nearby. And there it was, right across from the water fountain that acted as a monument at the center of the intersection.

'_All right, now all I need to do is find change . . . change . . ._' she murmured and began ferreting through the pockets of her blazer.

'_Hopefully this is enough to get me through to D. C.,_' she thought as she pushed the assortment of foreign coins around the palm of her hand. Lyn started towards the phone as soon as she was certain she had enough change. She walked in a distracted sort of trance, not noticing the many holes in her path. That is, until one came into contact with her right foot.

Lynné let out a startled yell as she pitched forward. Her leg twisted around in the pothole, her arms flailed, and in the process of trying to remain upright, her change went flying.

Suppressing a groan of frustration, Lyn grimaced as her fistful of coins soared through the air and landing with a resounding splash in the fountain in front of her.

She muttered something that sounded like "As if I haven't got enough shit to deal with . . ." and stormed over to the water fountain. Crouching down in front of it, Lyn rolled up the sleeves of her shirt and submerged her hand in the icy water.

"Mademoiselle?" a small voice asked.

Always on the alert, Lynné withdrew her hand from the fountain as if the water had been scalding. She spun around as she pushed off of the water fountain, her eyes narrowed with dubiety.

"Mademoiselle?" the voice called again, this time with more curiosity.

Lyn closed her eyes and breathed a sigh of alleviation when she saw who had spoken. It was a little girl, only about six give or take a year. She was obviously of French nationality, unless she was a very accomplished actress because her accent certainly had Lyn convinced. Pale, almost white blonde hair hung in loose curls that fell to the small of her back. Her eyes – as dark as Lyn's own – were narrowed in disapproval as she eyeballed the intense brunette who had been digging around a water fountain.

'_Little Debbie's met Marilyn Monroe. They've combined styles and this was the result,_' Lyn thought distantly as she observed the little girl who was decked out in a sundress of snow white and sky blue pinstripes. The little girl had put her hands on her hips and was scrutinizing the American agent angrily.

"Vous n'êtes pas censés vous en couler!" (You're not supposed to steal from that!) she informed her, outraged.

For a few seconds, Lyn gazed at the little girl with a look that would have frightened most people away.

"And you're not supposed to talk to strangers," Lyn replied in a voice that was calm and sweet at the same time. Then, she extended an arm and pointed off somewhere in the distance.

"Piss off."

* * *

Liam glanced around nervously. Fieldwork really wasn't his style. He'd much rather stand in the background and let someone more experienced (like Sands or Lynné or some other manipulative yet eloquent agent) do all the talking. But life was full of struggles. Meeting a complete (not to mention potentially dangerous) stranger at a restaurant in Paris was only one of them.

His hand shook slightly as he reached out to pick up the glass in front of him. Liam steadied himself quickly by gripping the crystal glass tightly and took a long drink of water. When he had finally finished, he set the glass down firmly. His left arm shifted slightly. Liam's blue eyes widened.

'_Oh God . . . oh no . . . not now._'

His right hand shot out and seized the arm. He had no sooner touched the limb when it began to detach from his body. Liam let out a soft moan of panic and at once tried to reattach the arm. His haphazard attempts were fruitless as he only succeeded in ripping the arm off completely.

As if that was the worst of his worries, at that moment Liam saw his client walking towards him with long, confident strides. Luckily, the man hadn't seen Liam or his uncooperative limb. He DID notice Liam eventually, but not the arm. When the man finally reached the table, he quirked an eyebrow at the CIA agent sitting before him.

"Hi," Liam greeted, smiling nervously. Underneath the table, he shifted the gun in his actual hand ever so slightly. It was now pointed directly at the other man's abdomen. "I, um . . ." He faltered, looking for an answer to his strange predicament.

'_What would Lynné do?_' he thought frantically, '_I should wear a necklace that says that; it would be so much more helpful than those ones with WWJD on them . . ._'

And then, it came to him, as simple as that.

"I . . . ," Liam stammered, looking up at the tall imposing man with a pleading expression, "I lost my arm . . . on duty . . . last year. Yes."

The man looked down at him strangely for a few seconds. Then, to Liam's emense relief, he nodded once in understanding.

"All right," the man said, taking a seat across from Liam. "I take it you are the one who called?"

"Yes," Liam sighed, unable to believe his good luck. "Yes, yes, I was – am. Heh."

He gave a weak smile that the man did not return.

"What is it your agency requires from me, Agent Fusco?" he asked in a tired voice, making it clear that he was not there for idle chitchat.

"Well," Liam began looking apprehensive, "I need you to kill a man."

* * *

_I feel like I'm gonna go to hell (if such a thing exists, agnostic again 9.9) or at least receive a few angry glares for overriding Jesus with someone with the last name of Sands. Oh well . . . . but I'm still paranoid, so I'm gonna go confess my sins, but not before I respond to some reviews, of course. ;)_

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**vanillafluffy: **Meep! I didn't know! o.o;; Seriously, I must have forgotten entirely that your Sands was Jewish or else I wouldn't've done the same thing to mine. But, yeah, now that you mention it, Sheldon sounds kind of Jewish . . . have yet to meet any Jews with that name though. And Sands falling off of the couch after he's had a nightmare made me think of 'Secret Window,' too. Geh, hate those falling dreams -.-;;

**DragonHunter200: **Don't worry, Liam eventually gets his say. I'm thinking of letting him "rip into" Lyn in the near future. Or . . . as best as one can tell off someone like Lynné. 9.9 And Keith Richards is a master musician, no doubt u.u o.o But rather scary, yes. (pokes Sands) Stop smoking, you fool!

**Dawnie-7: **I'm the same way with flashbacks, hence why they occur in every other chapter, lol. Don't know why either, I just like 'em. Guess it's for the same reasons I find a Jewish Sands and Lyn funny. XD

**morph: **Heh, I don't mind questions (mostly cuz I question everything 9.9) but I will answer as best I can without letting any major details slip. 1) I assure you, that's answered in the next chapter. 2) Maybe in time. 3) (like the girl in 'Don't Say a Word') I'll never te-ell . . . 4) Definitely! Hope that's helped a little bit. And of course you can use some of my quotes. I never mind anything like borrowing unless there's plagiarism involved (has read 'Secret Window, Secret Garden too much 9.9) But, sure, go right ahead. )

_Oh, oh, oh! And as a note to everyone: I've just read something that made my day. Apparently, while doing an interview, Robert Rodriguez said that, and I quote, "the character of Agent Sands might return in an animated sequel or possibly a video game." (jumps up and down insanely) Feel free to celebrate, guys! And hope that Mr. Rodriguez fulfils our expectations! :D!!!_

o


	10. Methods of Communication

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Ten:** Methods of Communication

I really don't know where the ideas for this chapter came from (just like I don't know where the little girl came from – y'know, the one who told Lyn that it was wrong to steal?). I think Lyn needed to 'vent' or something, although she doesn't seem like the venting type. Although there really isn't a lot known about that girl (mostly because I keep coming up with things to add on to her character as time goes on 9.9). But this chapter isn't all about her. It's got more of Sands and Zebbidy in it, just so's ya know.

* * *

"What do you mean you don't remember?" Sands demanded as he followed her down the woman down the stairs and into the living room.

"I just forget them, that's what I mean!" Zebbidy said defensively, turning the corner and entering the kitchen.

"Okay," he said, trying to be reasonable, "That's normal, not exactly helpful, but normal nonetheless. Have you had any of these dreams before?"

"Well, if I did, I wouldn't remember, would I?" Zebbidy snapped. She reclined her body slightly so she could lean back against the kitchen countertop. Folding her arms over her chest, she gazed up at him expectantly.

"No, I suppose you wouldn't," Sands replied, annoyed.

"Listen, I don't know why I don't remember any of my dreams," she said to him and a much calmer voice. "It might be because they're so confusing and stupid, or it might be because I don't want to remember them."

Sands turned his head sharply in her direction. Immediately he regretted the sudden movement; his head was already throbbing from its lovely meeting with the coffee table in the living room. Still, the pounding in his brain didn't stop his questions.

"Why wouldn't you want to remember them?"

Zebbidy shrugged carelessly.

"Care to answer that?" Sands wanted to know.

"Are you all right?" Zebbidy asked suddenly, her voice laced with concern when she saw the agent rub his shoulder gingerly.

"Fine, Zeb, I'm just peachy," he replied sardonically, "however, unless you stop avoiding the subject, I'm gonna be asking you the same question."

Zebbidy gave him a 'please' expression before rolling her eyes and returning to what she saw was the real problem at hand. She had mastered the blender easily, and already knew what flavor she wanted. Fruit wasn't a problem; somebody – probably Lynné or Liam – had stocked the refrigerator before leaving. But she couldn't find anything that even remotely resembled protein powder. Zebbidy frowned at the blender.

'_I really don't wanna resort to fish or peanut butter, but that doesn't mean I'm not willing . . ._'

The entire time she was contemplating all of this, Zebbidy paid no mind to the CIA agent or the all agitated look that were being thrown at her. Little did she know, Sands wasn't one to take being ignored lightly.

"All right," Sands sighed, "If that's the way you're gonna be . . ."

He shook his head, looking as though Zebbidy was forcing him into something he really didn't want to do. He then disappeared through the door that lead to the living room, and once again Zebbidy thought nothing off it.

'_Damnit_,' Zebbidy swore in her mind, '_How in the HELL do they expect me to make a goddamn smoothie without protein powder??_'

"Ah, fuck it," she muttered aloud and she began to toss her pre-cut strawberries and peaches into the blender. After adding a couple of ice cubes and a squirt of water to the mix, Zebbidy prepared to send the blades of the blender spinning. Flipping out her index finger, she reached out and pushed the button marked 'START.'

Nothing happened.

Zebbidy's eyebrows contracted slightly at this. Not ready to be stopped, she jabbed the start button again.

Still nothing.

The blades didn't spin, there was no satisfying grinding sound that told her that her smoothie was being made, and the fruit remained stationary inside the contraption, slowly growing soggy and mushy as the ice melted with time.

A thought struck her, one that she knew she would be kicking herself for forgetting. Zebbidy took hold of the blender and pulled it towards her. Prepared to be aggravated at her own stupidity, she leaned around slightly so she could see behind the miniscule machine and her eyes widened in incredulity. The blender was still plugged in.

'_What the hell . . . ?_'

Then realization dawned on her.

'_That bastard!_'

"Turn it back on!" she yelled to Sands, wherever the asshole was.

Said asshole chose not to answer.

"Turn the power on NOW, damnit!"

Still, Sands made no response. Zebbidy leaned back against the kitchen counter, crossing her arms and holding back her huffs of annoyance. Then, a thought struck her.

"Y'know," she called out to Sands, "If the food in the refrigerator starts to rot because there's nothing to keep it cold, it's gonna be your ass."

"And why's that?" the agent called back.

"Welllll, I don't think your sister would be very pleased with the knowledge that she's gonna have to go to the store again."

"She'll send Fusco out in her place," Sands told her after a moment of pondering this.

"Still, she doesn't' seem like the type who'd be too happy with no power," Zebbidy replied casually. "But if you don't mind provoking her anger, then by all means, leave the power off. I can find other things to do."

At once the blades of the blender began to whirl, throwing her fruit, ice, and water into a mini, edible tornado. Grinning in satisfaction, Zebbidy called to Sands one more time.

"Thank you!"

* * *

She had met with another agent stationed in France. The fact that her phone had cut out while she had been talking to her so-called superior was just a minor mishap. After digging around the bottom of a water fountain for a while, her spilled change had finally resurfaced and she had been able to contact the CIA again. A meeting had been set, and, several days later, she had met with another agent. They had sat down and worked everything out.

She had received a new team set up somewhere in Paris while she, Sands, Liam, and Samhain were to remain stationed in the large summer cottage.

She hadn't been burned . . .

Not yet.

But the thought still plagued her. Which was why, about a week after the meeting with her fellow agent, Lynné was walking through a graveyard in the middle of the afternoon.

'_Don't know why I'm doing this; there really isn't a point . . ._'

**_You're right. You're just going to embarrass yourself – although I'll get a good laugh out of it – if you go through with this, so just don't. Turn around, get back in your car, and drive away._**

'_No,_' Lynné responded quietly, '_I never go anywhere unless I intend to accomplish something. If no, it's just a waste. So here I stay._'

**_Aren't you the little recycler._**

'_Just be glad I didn't bring a Ouija board,_' Lyn muttered distractedly.

Rows of tombstones were lined up on either side of her as she walked down the dirt path that was littered with gravel. The gray granite of the headstones seemed to give off an air of foreboding as she passed them, almost as if they didn't want her to be there.

**_Oooh . . . aren't we getting dramatic?_**

'_Shut it. These are my thoughts, therefore nobody else can hear them._'

**_Except for me. You're not the least bit concerned about that?_**

'_You're the fucking voice in my head – do you honestly think I give a rat's ass about your opinion of me?_'

The voice didn't have a response for that, something that assured Lynné that she had won that argument. She continued onward through the graves, straying off the path and eventually ending up in front of the tomb she was looking for.

"Y'know," Lyn said, looking down at the headstone, "I don't know why Dad saw fit to bury you here. He could've just kept your body in America." She shrugged. "Would've been more convenient for me, at least. D'you know just how long it took me to find you?"

Lynné sighed as she gazed down at the polished gray stone before her.

"Hello, Odette," she greeted quietly, "Or should I say Mom?"

**_Well, did she really have a chance to be your mom?_**

'_She died when I was three, I'd say she got enough time to act all matronly. Plus, I suppose I should call her 'Mom' out of respect._'

**_First you turn into a tree-hugger and now you're learning to respect people._** The let out a sigh of absolute disgust. **_Beatrice Lynné Sands, what has become of you?_**

Her eyes may have been narrowed but they were focused on the gravestone, even though it had done nothing but sit there beside her. It was the voice she was really fed up with, but since it was just a figment of her own imagination, it was not visible. It would never be unless she went totally and completely crazy.

**_And talking to headstones doesn't count as crazy in the least._**

Lyn shook her head muttering, "I don't even know why I came here. You two are lousy conversationalists," she added to the voice and her mother's grave.

**_Just get on with it,_** the voice told her in a bored tone.

'_Fine,_' Lyn replied, rolling her eyes behind her dark glasses.

"I suppose you would've wanted to be buried in your own soil, hmm?" she said to the grave. "This is your country of origin, so I guess it makes sense if you would've wanted your cemetery plot dug here.

"But I'll never know, will I? That could've been a request in your will or Dad just might've wanted to rid himself of you. I'm betting on the latter, but that's just me. Dad and I aren't exactly on the best of terms, especially at the moment.

"Did you love him? I mean really LOVE him? Or did you just wanna have kids? I don't see why you would – sticky, loud, grimy, little mooks that they are – but that's just me."

Lynné paused to put a cigarette in her mouth. She was just about to light up when she paused, staring intently at her mother's grave.

"D'you mind if I smoke? Or are you gonna bitch at me about getting lung cancer?"

No response. Lyn smirked.

"Guess not. Besides, it's not like you have to worry about second-hand smoke anyway, right?"

She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes in relief as she felt a few more of her cells being killed off. Lyn held the smoke in her lungs for several seconds. The trees of the cemetery swayed almost disapprovingly at her as a gust of wind blew by. Lyn scowled up at them.

"Come on . . . don't make me do the 'It's my body' routine. It's been done to death, so to speak."

She paused, grinning again at her choice of words.

"D'you know that he tried to get me to marry someone? It's true. We held a wedding and everything. Went through with the entire ceremony. Then, at the reception, Sands – that is, you're darling Jeffery – kidnapped me. I went without protest, as I'm sure you already know.

"We never got a marriage license, Tim and I, so we weren't technically wed anyway so I'm not a total sinner. Besides . . ." She took another drag on her cigarette. ". . . it's not like I've got much to lose anyway. My soul's already gone along with my leg – did you hear about that? Bet it came as a shock.  
But I've learned to cope.

"Although the prosthetic one starts to hurt if you stand on it for too long," she informed her mother, leaning against the grave casually.

The wind swirled angrily around her as if it was protesting what she was doing. Lyn raised an eyebrow.

"You think I deserved it?" she said thoughtfully. "If you think about all the things I'd done before – all the things I did AFTER – you could say I did. But that's who I am, Mommy dearest. I'm a corrupt, amoral bitch who does what she can to get what she wants and has no sense of guilt if she gets someone hurt or even killed in the process."

Lyn sighed, allowing small gusts of smoke to escape through her nose. Her dark eyes scanned her surroundings: Lots of trees, plenty of headstones and monuments, flowers, and the mourners come to pay their respects or weep all over the ground.

**_Unlike you who's just come to interact with a corpse._**

Grounding her teeth, Lynné asked her mother's grave, "I wonder . . . . did you ever hear it? Or . . . them? You had to have had at least one – "

"Celui que?" (One what?)

It wasn't her mother's voice and Lynné knew that, but that knowledge didn't stop her from being suspicious. She spun around as she pushed off of her mother's grave, her eyes narrowed with dubiety.

"Mademoiselle?"

Pressing a hand to her chest to steady her pulsating heart, Lynné rolled her eyes towards the sky, more annoyed with her own paranoid overreactions than the little girl's sudden appearance.

"Mademoiselle, que faites-vous?" (Miss, what are you doing?) the child asked with pure interest.

'_She's not going for the Marilyn/Little Debbie crossover look, I see,_' Lyn thought absentmindedly when she noticed that the little girl was wearing a pale yellow sundress today. It had bright red strawberries sprinkled all over it, and she had equally red sandals to match. Cute. Too cute.

**_Hey . . ._** the voice warned, **_Don't go getting any ideas. It's Sands job to restore the balance, not yours. You just . . . make sure everything falls . . . into place._**

"Mademoiselle . . . ?"

'_Isn't that kind of like the same thing?_'

**_Here we go with the logic,_** the voice sighed.

'_Logic doesn't exist in the world of Beatrice Lynné Sands, darling, you should know that by now._'

**_Yeah, well . . ._**

"Mademoiselle!!"

"WHAT IS IT . . . . . . . dear?" she asked, feigning kindness.

"Que faisiez-vous le fait de parler à une tombe?" (What were you doing talking to a grave?)

"Do you follow people on a regular basis, hmm? Keep a little schedule as to who you're gonna stalk next or do you just have a fascination with American touristes?"

"Non," the little girl laughed, seeing right through Lyn and thinking her questions ridiculous. "Je suis venu pour visiter mes parents, mais alors je vous ai entendus," (I came to visit my parents but then I heard you,) she explained. "Je vous ai trouvés!" (I found you!) she cried, sounding oddly delighted that she had accomplished such a feat.

"Well, good for you, kid, but if you don't mind, fu – "

"Que faisiez-vous?" (What were you doing?) the girl cut in simply. "Je voudrais savoir." (I would like to know.)

"What does it look like I'm doing, kid?"

"Je - mademoiselle, je ne peux pas . . ." (I -- miss, I cannot . . .) The child faltered, bringing a hand up to cover her light pink lips. A pale curl had captured the attention of her remaining hand and it was being wound around her index finger tightly.

It was then that Lynné remembered. Weeks ago, when she had first seen the her, the little girl had kept her hands hidden behind her back. At the time, Lyn had thought nothing of it (she was more focused on contacting the agency at the time) but now it seemed important beyond understanding.

And today, when the girl had interrupted Lyn's conversation, she had kept her hands the same way: Hidden. But now they were in plane view, Lynné could see them and the child's arms clearly. In the crook of the little girl's left elbow hung a small, simple cane made of wood. A walking stick.

The girl had mastered the art of disguise even though she could only have been six or seven years of age. She had even fooled Lynné for a time, so she had to be good. Very good. She kept her eyes focused intently on where she thought a person was standing. Her gaze was incredibly accurate. So accurate, nobody would ever know the little girl's handicap.

She was blind.

* * *

_Ooo . . . betcha didn't see that coming, did ya? Well, to tell you the truth, neither did I. I think the idea struck me a little while ago when I was reading the first story in Stephen King's 'Four Past Midnight' (Yes, the one with 'Secret Window, Secret Garden' in it). The story's called_ 'The Langoliers' _and if anyone out there has read it, then you'll probably know where I got my inspiration._

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**vanillafluffy: **Ooo, Donnie Brasco ref! Heh, anyway, don't mind me, I'm just paranoid about many things (plagiarism especially even before I read SW). As a note on Liam's arm problems, I was originally gonna have him say "I lost my arm in the war" but then I couldn't think of any recent wars he might have fought in (not if I wanted to keep the story present-day, at least) so I went with him saying that he lost it on duty. Didn't think it was as funny but I guess I was wrong, lol. And, yeah, now it looks like Lyn's got her own stalker kid. Although the little boy in OUaTiM didn't exactly follow Sands around, did he?

**Dawnie-7: **(contemplating this) Hmm . . . WWLD necklaces . . . I could start a whole market for those things and make millions and never have to worry about anything again! Nah. I'd rather finish this fist. But maybe after I'm done . . . (begins plans for evil marketing scam)

**DragonHunter200: **lol, Ichabod! But he'll get to tell Lyn what's what eventually, although, knowing her, she won't be too affected by it. 9.9 (snicker) Yes, he sorely needs to prove he's a man. (points threateningly at Captain Jack) Not a word, you. .9;;

Captain Jack: (holds up a hand in casual defense) Wasn't gonna say a word, luv. Although yeh gotta

admit --

Sidney: (warningly) Shut it. -.9

**morph: **Seeing Sands animated wouldn't be that strange to me, I don't think. Probably because whenever I draw him, I always draw him as a cartoon figure instead of a realistic person.

Sands: Yeah, and you make me look like a girl. -.o

Sidney: That was that one time I drew you in realistic style, remember?

Sands: You made me look like a girl.

Sidney: That's just what that one guy said and what does he know? He probably hasn't even seen your movie. u.u I'm sure if 'Mexico' had been as popular as 'Pirates' nobody would mistake you for a woman.

Sands: GIRL. Not woman. GIRL. .O

Sidney: Oh, firmez le bouche.

Captain Jack: Yeah, listen to her, yeh eunuch.

Sands: (glare!!!)

Sidney: o.o' Oy vey . . .

o


	11. Playing the Game

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Eleven**: Playing the Game

Not to sound arrogant or anything, but so far everyone's been in character, don't ya think? Except Zebbidy. She's doesn't seem like herself – not to ME, anyway. My one IZ story 'Open Up Your Mind' give a much better interpretation of her. I thought so, anyway. Meh, maybe it's just cuz of the situation she's in. Or the fact that I'm trying not to turn her into a Mary Sue (which probably explains why I haven't written anything about her being attractive or even pretty cuz, in her stories, everyone comments about her appearance). And I'm worried about Sands too. Is he coming off okay? I don't think he's being OOC just . . . noninvolved, y'know? I dunno. It's probably me but y'never know . . .

* * *

Confusion was never fun. Unless, of course, you were the person standing off on the sidelines watching someone else be confused. Now THAT was . . . well, it was a real bundle of laughs. But being the one who was confused just sucked. Royally. And it was never welcome when one didn't know where they were. Such was the case of Lynné. She didn't know where she was.

Correction, she had several clues, but all were vague. One was the sound of chimes and guitars that surrounded her, engulfing her in their music. Another was the way her feet sounded as they thudded against the ground. They scrapped and scratched along, letting her know that the ground beneath her was rough and probably thick with dust. The last clue was the clearest of the three. Arid fog clouded the air, filling it with humidity and making it hard to breathe. All around her the air was thick with heat.

'_Nowhere else is this hot . . ._' Lyn thought tiredly.

**_Sure they are,_** the voice said brightly, making Lyn's head pound with its uncanny cheerfulness.

'_Okay, but nowhere else do they have dust like this. My throat's coated with the shit and I can't feel my tongue . . ._'

**_That's okay,_** the voice assured her, **_S'not like you've been using it all that much if you catch my drift._**

'_If this is about my sex life again, ba --_'

**_I never said it was,_** the voice reminded her innocently.

Lyn had been thrown from a building, stumbled, and landed in the dirt seconds later. She had managed to push herself up, and, with some difficulty, she had gotten herself standing. And now, she was walking, or rather hobbling down the dusty roads of what she assumed was some town in Mexico.

**_And you're assuming this because . . . ?_**

Lyn hissed through her teeth as she ran headlong into a wall.

'_I'm blind, you fucking imaginary lunatic, what the hell did you think?_'

'_This . . . this isn't right,_' she panted a moment later, sore and tired from running into so many unseen objects. '_I just . . . what the hell is going on . . . ?_'

**_Easy, girl,_** the voice consoled her, **_You're just not used to guilt, that's all._**

'_What the hell? What do I have to feel guilty about?_'

**_Wellll . . . being short with that kid an' all . . . _**

'_I didn't feel guilty about that,_' Lyn told it plainly.

**_Well, had you done it before last November, I'm sure you wouldn't have felt any remorse, but now . . . _**

'_You're saying that because I told off some kid I've grown emotions? That is the biggest line of shit if I ever heard one – you actually expect me to believe that?_'

**_No,_** it said simply, **_I'm just . . . voicing my opinion. . . . heh._**

"Sick . . ." Lyn murmured, shaking her head, "Fucking twisted . . ."

"Mademoiselle?"

"Oh, Jesus . . ." Lyn sighed, recognizing the voice right away, "this isn't my day . . . . or night . . . kinda hard to tell . . ."

"Que?" (What?)

"Nothing," she answered offhandedly, "Listen, kid, I need you to tell me where we are."

"Vous ne savez pas?" (Don't you know?)

"No," Lyn replied more than a little irritated. "That's why I asked."

"J'ai cru que je n'ai pas été censé parler aux étrangers.," (I thought I wasn't supposed to talk to strangers,) the little girl reminded her.

"I'm a cop, all right? Now where are we?"

"Je n'ai jamais entendu d'un flic aveugle auparavant," (I've never heard of a blind cop before,) the girl commented wryly.

"Little fucker – OWW!!" Lyn cried when a sudden pain erupted in her right shin. She had kicked her . . . the little brat had actually kicked her!

**_You gonna let her get away with that?_** the voice asked, bored.

'_No fucking way._'

In one quick movement, Lyn's arms had shot out and grabbed the little girl by the shoulders. Her eyebrows narrowed fiercely, and when she spoke her voice was cold and deadly.

"I'm only gonna say this once, so you listen, and you listen good, kid. I don't know where I am, and I wouldn't doubt it if I'm being shadowed – "

"Que?" (What?) the girl interrupted, confused.

"Followed. It wouldn't surprise me if I'm being followed. But I can't exactly tell, as you already know. So I need you to tell me where I am so I can get the hell out of here, comprenez?"

"Mademoiselle, si vous voulez savoir où vous êtes, enlève vos verres," (Miss, if you wish to know where you are, take off your glasses,) she told her.

"What?"

Lyn heard the little girl sigh in exasperation. A second later, she felt something slid past her ears, down the bridge of her nose, and then off her face completely. All at once, she could see again and she almost kicked herself for being so . . . well, blind.

She looked down, intending to thank the kid, but stopped dead where she was. Caught in a summer wind. the child's pale curls were swirling about her, veiling her face. But when the wind finally died, everything was reviled.

Gaping bloody sockets and all.

* * *

"Lynné . . . ? Lynné . . . ! C'mon, you're starting to worry me, here."

"You're always worried, Fusco, I just usually the cause of it."

"Lynné?"

"YES," his partner stressed, "What IS it, Liam?"

"I," he began as Lyn pushed herself up on her elbows. "I . . . I woke up."

Lyn nodded slowly, pretending to contemplate.

"Okaaay . . . and then I'm guessing you passed my room, saw me laying there – bathed in the moonlight – and just couldn't take your eyes off of yours truly."

"Umm, no, no . . . not exactly," Liam stammered, wringing his hands nervously.

Lyn muttered sarcastically, "Well, there goes all of my self-confidence."

"Erm, I couldn't sleep," Liam explained, "So I, uh, I got up . . ."

Lyn gave her slow nod once again as she stared up at him with dark eyes that saw everything.

"And I, uh, I started to walk down the hall – y'know, I wanted to go downstairs – and then I, uh, I saw you."

"And you saw me laying there – bathed in the moonlight – and you just couldn't take your eyes off of me, right?"

Liam shook his head back and forth. "No . . ."

"Damn . . . Well, what DID stop you, Liam?"

"Well, uhh, you looked sort of . . . pained? Sort of like you wanted to scream but couldn't, I dunno. But I wanted to see if I could help." He shrugged.

"Word of advice, Liam: Don't try to help me. It'd just be a waste of your time."

"Yeah, yeah," he replied hastily, "I, uh, I know . . ."

Lyn sighed.

"Damiano's getting restless, Liam, isn't he?"

Her partner looked up at her in surprise.

"Our hit man?"

She nodded.

"What brought him up?" Liam asked curiously.

"Nothing much, I was just thinking about it. He's not gonna wait much longer. Sooner or later he'll be wanting his payment, impatient bastard that he is, and if he doesn't get it . . ."

"He'll walk out on us," Liam finished. "But we're CIA, can't we just dig up some dirt on the guy and use it against him?"

"We could," Lyn said reasonably, "but he could always go straight to the Poissons and rat us out. Tell 'em that we're going to bring their whole family down and that he's been given the job of killing ol' Edouard Poisson himself." She sighed tiredly. "That's the problem with people, Liam."

"What's the problem?"

"Trusting them," she answered simply.

"What . . . what's wrong with that?" Liam wondered, bewildered.

Lyn gave him one of her false, unfeeling smiles.

"You can't."

* * *

"We have to take a cab? What's wrong with the SUV?"

"A big blue vehicle isn't exactly what you'd call inconspicuous, don't ya think?" Lyn replied.

"Yes," Zebbidy sighed in exasperation, "But . . .can you blame me for not wanting to take a taxi? They're –"

"Icky? Disgusting? Revolting? Call them whatever you like, dear, and I'll agree with you, but we're still taking a cab. Now get ready. It'll be at the edge of Paris in fifteen. We've got some walking to do."

Zebbidy rolled her eyes but obeyed. Once the woman had disappeared up the stairs, Liam took (or maybe he jumped . . . ?) at the opportunity to speak with Lyn.

"Am I going with you or what?"

When she blinked up at the much taller man, a hint of surprise lingered in her eyes.

**_You were expecting him to say something else?_**

'_I . . . don't know . . ._'

**_Hmm . . . he sounded eager, but maybe it's just me._**

'_It's you._'

"Oh, you can stay here if you want," Lyn said carelessly. "You and Sands can do guy . . . things. Y'know . . . chill."

Liam shook his head, ignoring her poor use of Ebonics.

"Sands isn't here."

This earned him a raised eyebrow and an intrigued look of surprise from Lyn.

"Really?" Lynné pried calmly.

"Yeah, he left a while ago. I don't know where he went," Liam added a little too quickly for Lyn's liking.

"Hmm . . ." she murmured, tapping a finger against her lips and eyeing him with disbelief.

"I don't," Liam assured her, holding his hands up in defense.

Before Lynné could contradict anything, Zebbidy reappeared at the top of the stairs.

"You don't what?" she wanted to know as she sailed down the steps with ease.

"Know where my darling brother is," Lynné informed her offhandedly. "Goddamn asshole does this all the time."

"Who? Sands or Liam?"

"Both," Liam answered somewhat sheepishly.

"Take your pick," Lyn said at the same time.

They both glanced at each other, Lyn with her eyebrows arched, Liam looking startled. Zebbidy stared between the two but said nothing.

* * *

"You can't still be taking me sight seeing," Zebbidy said to Lyn as they trudged down the road. The ancient buildings of Paris loomed in the distance just out of their reach. Lynné shook her head at Zebbidy's comment.

"Nope, that's what I'm doing."

"Oh? I would've thought you would've gone out of your way to keep me hidden. You're just throwing me out in the open by doing this." Expanding her arms Zebbidy spun slowly and gracefully, gesturing to the world around them.

"Oh!" Lyn suddenly cried theatrically. "All right, all right . . . I confess – I didn't want to, but you ripped it out of me, Zebbidy Samhain."

Halting where she stood, Zebbidy slowly turned to give the agent a

"You're bait," Lyn told her sadly, "That's all you are. Just a pawn in the game of chess. We're all playing it. We're white; they're black. We're the cops; they're the robbers. All of us are playing Cowboys and Indians and YOU'RE the one who's going to lure those no good savages out of their ivory towers."

When the other woman gaped at her, Lyn had to fight the mad desire to laugh. She looked so funny like that – and laughing wild was something she hadn't done in a long time. But Lynné kept her head level, as usual, and made sure she had a strong hold on her composure while she was at it.

"So I'm bait," Zebbidy said at last. "And you're going to just . . . TOSS me out into the open and hope that the Poissons are tempted out of hiding. THAT'S the CIA's plan." She started around her nodding her head in one rhythmic movement, looking utterly stunned.

"That's genius. Genius, y'know," she said to Lynné, nearly choking on her words. "Yeah, y'know, I can really see why the 'I' stands for intelligence. Good gods . . ."

"Yeah, well, you had to learn some day, sugar," Lyn said with a shrug, completely unmoved at how flustered the woman next to her was.

"But this late in the game!?" Zebbidy demanded, outraged.

Lyn smirked, "So you admit that it's a game?"

Her rhetorical question was met with a stare that seemed to last seconds for Lynné and go on for hours for Zebbidy. But the time that passed gave the latter time to pull herself back together at least. Taking in several deep breaths, Zebbidy lifted her eyes and glared determinedly at the CIA agent.

"Yes," she admitted curtly, "I'll agree that I'm stuck in a game."

"I know that you didn't wanna get involved, but you didn't have a choice," Lyn said, trying, to Zebbidy, to sound understanding. She didn't seem to be trying very hard, however.

"The Poisson Mob decided to go after you and once a Mafia family makes a decision it is very rare if they choose to go back on it."

Zebbidy bowed her head letting her auburn hair slip past her ears and curtain her face. It worked as a decent shield, but Lynné liked people to look at her when she was talking to them.

"I guess I don't blame you," Zebbidy whispered softly. "Your agency wants this to end as quickly as I do . . ." She lifted her face to the graying sky, letting out a long, low breath. Her eyes remained closed the entire time she spoke. ". . . and the only way to do that is to give them me . . ."

"Them's the breaks, darling," Lyn said, smiling tiredly. "So are you ready?"

"Ready," Zebbidy told her, beginning to walk again. "Not willing, but ready."

"Why did you tell me?" she asked once Lyn had caught up. The other woman shrugged carelessly.

"Quite frankly, because when you asked why we were going sight seeing when being out in the open is one of the LAST things YOU should be doing . . . I couldn't think of any kind of response other than . . . the truth." She flashed her a frosty grin again. "Hit ya kinda hard, didn't it?"

"A little," Zebbidy admitted, nodding, "Although after learning not to trust the government years ago, I should've suspected it."

"You don't trust the government?" Lyn asked, still grinning.

Zebbidy shook her head, staring at Lynné curiously. Her green eyes widened with confusion when the agent gave a short laugh, looking truly amused for the first time since Zebbidy met her.

"Join the club, Zeb, population: You, me, Liam, my dear brother, and about . . . five percent of the United States."

They continued the rest of their short journey without talking. Birds twittered in every direction without a care in the world. The trees around them swayed in the light breeze, their branches clacking together softly.

"So . . . how will we know when the game is over?" Zebbidy asked quietly.

It took Lyn all but fifteen seconds to answer, but it seemed like a lifetime to Zebbidy.

"When somebody finally says checkmate."

* * *

Plunged deep into her own musings, Zebbidy leaned back into the springy blue cushions of the taxicab, barely aware of Lynné as she slid into the seat next to her.

'_Well, as far as cabs go, this one isn't half bad. Least it doesn't have the sweaty old man smell._'

"The Louvre Museum, thanks" Lyn told the driver, crossing her legs and placing her hands atop them.

"Que?" (What?) asked the driver.

"The Louvre," she repeated, fishing through her purse.

The driver shook his head at her.

"_Que_?" he asked again.

This time his question earned him a glare.

"This is the only thing I don't like about France," she muttered to Zebbidy, "About 90 of the population speaks English yet only 15 uses it. And an even larger majority acts like they can't understand you."

"And shouldn't this guy know what you're talking about anyway?" Zebbidy whispered back. "The Louvre is a popular museum, isn't it?"

"Mmm, especially for touristes," Lyn replied nodding.

"Les dames, aujourd'hui, si vous ne vous opposez pas," (Ladies, today, if you don't mind,) their driver snapped, visibly irritated. To Lyn he sounded like the French equivalent of the stereotypical New York taxi driver.

'_To speak French, or not to speak French,_' Lyn sighed mentally.

**_Keep up the Shakespeare and your questions will come to an abrupt stop. Just speak the language; your employers --_**

'_CONTACTS or CLIENTS. I don't have employers._'

**_Fine, fiiiine . . . your CLIENTS aren't going to wait forever._**

'_True, impatient CIA dolts . . ._'

**_So just use your French and get your ass over there before they leave. You don't wanna get thrown away again, do you?_**

'_No. I don't have enough cash to risk that. Not yet._'

**_Thaaaat's right . . . Now tell the man – in French – where you want to go._**

'_But I'll be blowing my cover if I do that,_' Lyn whined, making sure to sound extra nasally.

**_Oh my Christ – he's a fucking CAB driver for God's sake! Big deal!_**

"Nous voudrions aller au Musée de Louvre, s'il vous plaît." (We'd like to go to the Louvre Museum, please.) After saying this, Zebbidy resumed her hobby of staring out the window but really seeing nothing.

"Finalement . . ." (Finally . . .) the cab driver muttered.

Lynné made a mental reminder to thank Zebbidy once they got to the museum. Although the thought slipping her mind would be more likely to happen than Zebbidy receiving any thanks from Lynné. Lyn shrugged it off. She was a stubborn, cocky bitch. Thanking people just didn't swing with her.

Her gaze shifted to the driver. He was stationed directly in front of her, but that didn't mean she couldn't make out his face. Offering a silent thanks to whoever invented rearview mirrors, Lyn absorbed the man who would be chauffeuring them for a while. He looked a little bulky, but Lyn imagined that if he took off his jacket she would think otherwise. He had blonde hair that was lighter than Liam's but cut in the style the agent used to sport before Lynné had met him. An old fashioned fedora had been placed on top of his head, covering up whatever hair he may have had underneath.

'_Ohhh, let's say he's bald. What the hell._'

The driver also had an equally blonde moustache that was so bushy it made Liam's look like he had drawn his on with eyebrow pencil.

'_Eh. Probably fake, how much do I wanna bet . . . ?_'

The only thing she couldn't observe were the man's eyes. Lyn found herself almost wishing she could see them now. After her brother had been blinded in Mexico a person's eyes had become very important to her. She was nearly yearning for this man's orbs because of what that damn cartel leader had done, but she could not see them. They were hidden from her behind dark shades.

Beside Lynné, Zebbidy's nose was going haywire. The thing kept twitching, driving Lynné up a wall and probably the driver too, if he had noticed. However, Lyn decided to be polite and not mention anything.

'_Gods, it's almost September, so that's almost two months and no visions . . ._' Zebbidy sighed to herself. Then all at once, her relief seemed to fade. '_Something's up. I don't just NOT See anything . . . _'

She narrowed her eyes at the back of the navy blue passenger's seat. Two months . . . something was definitely wrong. Zebbidy wrapped her arms around herself as if she were cold even though the vehicle's temperature was quite comfortable. She was getting another one of her feelings, women's intuition some would call it, but Zebbidy knew better.

'_Greaaaat . . . a seizure on the way to the museum. That is JUST what I need._'

* * *

Okay, I know how that seems like it didn't have any Sands in it, but I will prove that it did. Only problem is, that probably won't happen 'til Monday. Tuesday at the latest. But rest assured that he IS in the next chapter. Just let me know if I'm putting him in this enough or not enough. Any suggestions are much appreciated.

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**vanillafluffy: **lol, actually, I had originally intended to have the little girl working for Poisson. Funny that. O.o

**DragonHunter200: **Heh, Sands knows how nasty Lynné can really become when she's angry, so he doesn't want to provoke her. Not sure where the graveyard scene came from, to tell ya the truth. Lyn (as well as everyone else) has a lot on her mind, so I think she figured that the only way to get it out, so to speak, was to . . . converse with her mom . . . ? I dunno. But it's good to hear that you liked the scene, at least. And the little girl as well since there's gonna be more of her in chapters to come. :)

**Dawnie-7: **Yeah, Lyn's feeling a little bad about the kid too, obviously. (motions above, indicating the chapter) But don't feel bad for encouraging Lyn's smart mouthed remarks. She can't help her self, plus you couldn't've known since I didn't think of making the kid blind until about an hour before I posted the last chapter. o.o'

**morph: **lol, Sands and Jack are always at each other's throats. Mostly cuz Sands tends to insult everyone with quick remarks but Jack can think up retorts just as fast. I'm thinking of selling tickets to their next brawl – no weapons, just words! – but maybe not. Thanks for adding this to your favorites list, by the way! I appreciate it muchly! :D

o


	12. The Hit Men, the Little Girl, and the Ca

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Twelve**: The Hit Men, the Little Girl, and the Cab Driver

Hey, Zeb finally gets to check out the Louvre museum in this chapter! How 'bout that. I guess I should make a note that I have never had the pleasure of visiting this museum (or Paris, or any part of France for that matter). Someday, maybe I will, one can only hope, after all. But, getting back on track, if anyone out there HAS been to the Louvre museum before, please feel free to give me some descriptions of the place. It'd be much appreciated. That way, I can go back and correct any mistakes I may have made. Merci!

- - -

Stephan Damiano was not one to accept bribery. No, that was a lie. Half a lie, he decided. He would accept bribery but not _CHEAP _bribery. He was not won over easily and would only perform acts if the right price came along. So when the excitable, one-armed CIA agent (looking like a hippie wannabe with his long blonde hair, Damiano had noted in disgust) had come along asking him to commit murder, Damiano had calmly countered:

"How much are you willing to pay?"

Stephan Damiano had grinned in satisfaction when the agent had proceeded to make a fool of himself by nearly dropping the prosthetic arm he had been holding and making a mad dash to retrieve it before it hit the floor.

He had been skeptical about lending a hand to the CIA. After all, if they had hired a nervous wreck like the American before him, then that didn't exactly increase his already paltry respect for the agency.

But then the agent had offered him fifty thousand dollars in return for his services. And all he had to do was murder someone. Clean and simple. Easy.

Damiano couldn't help but feel that there was always a problem with everything he did. No matter how cautious he was or how carefully he planed things out, something always seemed to find a way to worm itself into his plan and create chaos. Well . . . maybe not chaos. Not every time, anyway. But a problem always managed to show up. No matter how big or small his job, there it was.

This job was no exception. It had just as many flaws as his previous ones. One was just how the CIA intended to pay him. Now, he was used to the 'half now, half later' deal, but he was usually told to go and kill whoever the next day – or even that very night – and he then received the rest of his payment the day after -- sometimes even sooner. But things were going differently this time. The CIA agent had yet to tell him when he wanted him to kill, where he was supposed to kill, and, most importantly, _whose _longevity he was shortening. Understandably, Stephan Damiano was growing impatient. He wanted the rest of his money and soon.

The CIA must have realized that he would not sit still for long. Stephan glanced up from his newspaper when he heard the scraping of a chair and the slight creak indicating that someone had sat down. Like the agent he had met before, this one was blonde and had a moustache. Unlike the previous man, however, this agent's hair was noticeably (and reasonably) shorter and the moustache he wore was far more impressive.

"Anything interesting?" the man asked, nodding to the newspaper in Damiano's hands.

"No," he sighed in reply, "just the usual nonsense. No real news just information about pop culture."

"And what do they have to say this week?" asked the agent, a shadow of a grin on his face.

"Ohhh, Paris Hilton made another video –"

"Bet she doesn't know how this one got out either, right?"

"That's what she says. And the paparazzi's going out of their way to stay in Johnny Depp's bad books."

This caused the man across from him to raise an eyebrow.

"The pirate guy?"

"Yes," Damiano said carelessly as he folded his paper, "Apparently one of them tried to photograph his kids again. He was pissed, naturally. Says that he doesn't care if they take pictures of him or his girlfriend but when they go after his kids –"

"– it's a whole other ball game," the agent finished then smiled again. "Stephan Damiano?"

The hit man nodded.

"So nice to finally meet you, Agent Sands."

- - -

"Wonder if they have any of Lautrec's work here," Lynné said thoughtfully, tilting her head to better examine a painting by one Leonardo DaVinci. "There weren't any the last time I was here but things change."

"I'm more of a Monet fan, myself," Zebbidy informed her as she let her green eyes sweep over the artwork. "Never knew the Mona Lisa was so small."

"Yeah, its size always comes as a surprise when someone sees the actual thing for the first time," Lyn agreed.

'_Funny,_' she thought, '_I seem to recall thinking the same thing about several men . . ._'

When Zebbidy began to snicker, Lynné turned to acknowledge her curiously.

"What?"

The quiet laughter abruptly came to an end. Zebbidy looked at her with large eyes.

"Didn't you . . . you mean, you didn't . . . never mind. Forget it."

"No," Lyn pressed, not one to forget anything, "What was that about?"

"I just . . . like to laugh," she said offhandedly.

The other woman arched her eyebrows disbelievingly but she went back to scrutinizing DaVinci's painting relieving Zebbidy of some of her anxiety.

'_Like to laugh . . . Smooth, Zeb, real smooth . . ._'

"I never did ask you . . ." Zebbidy began cautiously, "that man, the one who went after me in the elevator . . . whatever happened to him?"

"Dead," Lynné replied promptly without missing a beat, "After he told us as much information as he knew, of course."

"Which was . . . ?" Zebbidy prompted.

"Nothing new," Lynné sighed staring into the dark eyes of the Mona Lisa and becoming lost in her thoughts as she did.

- - -

Several strands of hair had slipped past Sands' ears and were now hanging in his face, obscuring his vision. Hastily brushing the strands back, Sands pointed the muzzle of his gun directly at his captive's forehead.

"Last chance, if you have anything you want to say, anything at all –"

"—speak now or forever hold your peace," Lynné finished, also aiming her gun at the man.

He kept his eyes tilted towards the ceiling for a moment before Sands regarded his sister with narrowed eyes.

"Like that wasn't where you were heading," Lyn said, waving her hand nonchalantly.

Sands turned back to their captive but kept his glare in place.

"Honnête à Dieu, c'est tout ce que je sais!" (Honest to God, that's all I know!) the man sputtered in rapid French. Blood was trailing down his face, gushing from the cuts that were made when Sands had hit him with the side of his gun. Rings from the handcuffs he wore had been cut into his wrists like permanent bracelets. His face was swollen and discolored greatly enhancing the man's appearance of a gory Halloween mask.

"Should we believe him?" Lyn asked of Sands.

"I just don't know," Sands answered lightly. "He could be telling the truth . . . then again, maybe not. Either way, his outcome isn't gonna be pretty."

The assassin's dull eyes widened. Suddenly they appeared much brighter, as thought something had sparked in his mind, igniting a fuse that set off thousands upon thousands of ideas, each one depicting his graphic and painful fate.

'_Well, y'know what they say,_' Lyn thought absently, '_Nothing quite brings out the zest for life in a person like the thought of their _impending _death._'

Sweat was collecting on the man's face, shining in the dim light she and Sands had focused on him. He was getting rather ripe in Lynné's opinion. She didn't know if it was just the mixture of fear and perspiration he was emitting, or if the guy had merely pissed himself. Lyn bet on the former; she and her brother weren't _that _intimidating.

**_What about that one guy? You sent _him _into cardiac arrest._**

_Fluke, that was all. Besides, nobody knew he had a weak heart. If he had only _told _us, then none of that would've happened. Therefore, I am not to blame._

"I'm not sure he _is _telling the truth," Sands remarked, looking Zebbidy Samhain's would-be killer up and down with distaste. The man shook his head violently, making drops of sweat fly like miniature missals. Lyn just barely held back a cringe.

"J'_ai_ dit vous tout que je sais, je ne cela jurerais que!" (I _have _told you all that I know, I would swear by it!)

"You _would_," Sands agreed casually, "except that right now you _aren't_, which makes me doubt you _very _much."

The man blanched as his eyes stretched in fear.

"Je -- je vous ai déjà dit—"(I – I already told you --) he started but Sands cut through.

"Yes, yes, we know you told us -- several times, in fact." He sighed, deep in thought. "And that's what makes me think you're lying."

"Que?" (What?) gasped her captive.

"No," Lyn spoke up suddenly. "We've learned all we can from him. I'm sure of it."

"What?" Sands asked, looking at her incredulously. Lyn rolled her eyes, shifting her gun from her right hand to her left.

"We've learned all we can," she repeated, annoyed. "I don't think there's anything else he can tell us."

"And just how can you be sure of that?" Sands questioned cynically.

Lyn's only answer was to gesture at the assassin with the barrel of her gun. The man winced, crunching his eyes together, but he slowly opened them when he realized that he wasn't going to be shot. Not yet.

Sands followed his sister's arm – amazing how both of his were coated with blood while each of hers were perfectly clean -- her gun, and his eyes finally landed on the man. Lynné's weapon was pointed directly at their captive's head. Sands' gaze lingered on the attacker's eyes for a fragment of a second before they reverted back to Lynné.

A look passed between them, one that let them know they had reached a term of understanding. The man before them was telling the truth. He had given them all the information he could, told them all that he knew. He had served his purpose and now he had to be disposed of.

"Do you wanna do it, or shall I?" Lyn murmured quietly.

Sands waved her off. "You do the honors, darlin', I've been having all the fun."

Raising an eyebrow, Lyn asked, "You sure?"

"Oh, yeah," Sands told her confidently, with a grin and a nod.

His sister returned the gesture with a shrug.

"Okay."

She cocked her gun slightly, readying herself, and prepared to fire. She was just about to pull the trigger when suddenly she lowered her weapon.

"Hand me that silencer, wouldja, dear?" she said, looking at Sands.

Her brother grabbed the attachment from the bed and tossed it to her without a word. He remained sitting on the piece of furniture, not wanting to be nearby when things got messy.

Lynné twiddled with the silencer for a moment, finally securing it to her gun. She then lifted the small, jet-black pistol, tilting her head back as she did so in order to get a better view of her captive.

On the bed, Sands absentmindedly flicked through a magazine. He didn't even look up when a dull, strangled shot rang through the air.

Gazing with eyes that held no trace of remorse, Lyn steadily lowered her gun. When she had fired the results had been instantaneous. The bullet pelted through the air and in a matter of seconds it had pierced through the head of her captive. At once blood had spouted from the hole like a fountain, spattering all over creating. It stained everything a dark crimson, including Lynné.

_Ahhhh . . . _she hissed to herself, _of all the days I chose to cover myself in blood – I _liked_ this shirt!_

She glanced down at the top she was wearing. It was a T-shirt, bright yellow in color that had the words '**Natural Blonde**' splashed across it in neon green lettering. Lynné wore the shirt without a wig despite the fact that complete strangers would stop to ask her if she knew that she was, in reality, a brunette. It was exceptionally funny if she could piss off a few blondes she knew.

Sands finally looked up from his book to catch a glimpse of his sister, wondering who she would look like: Stephen King's '_Carrie'_ or someone out of '_The Texas Chainsaw Massacre_'. Turns out, Lyn resembled neither. Her hair was a mess; all stringy and tangled. Of course her clothes were covered with blood, that was expected. But it was the way the attacker's fluids had sprayed all over her face that intrigued Sands the most. His sister's image now bore large freckles where the drops of scarlet had landed. Some of it trailed down her cheeks, some of it remained stationary. Still or moving, the blood against her pale skin gave her almost a haunted look. And when Lynné turned to him and grinned, Sands thought she looked absolutely insane.

- - -

Zebbidy gasped, clutching her chest and staring up at the painting in front of her with blank eyes. Lynné had gone off to sit on the bench behind her and was now thumbing through the glossy pamphlet she had swiped from the museum.

It seemed so strange to her that the agent could go about things so calmly when just weeks ago she had killed a man – stood placidly and killed a man. And her brother, Sands, had just sat there and let her do it! Zebbidy didn't believe a person could do such a thing.

'_But they couldn't just let him go._' She tried desperately to be reasonable, hoping to find some kind of explanation for why the two agents had just up and killed a man. '_They could have used him as ransom though . . . Oh, that wouldn't work. He was probably just some thug hired and paid in full to kill me. He wouldn't be any value to . . ._' She faltered on the last word in her sentence, not wanting to finish.

'_It's over and yet it has begun again,_' she thought faintly, as if reciting an epic or a poem all about despair and memories past. '_But, hell, I'll get over it; I always do._'

- - -

"Listen, Damiano . . . I will call you when we're ready. No one has made a move yet, and until someone does, we're not going to make ours, capisca?"

From across the table his hit man glared at him. Sands sighed inwardly and rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses. It seemed like all the assassins he had ever hired kept to a strong silent act and only spoke when they absolutely had to. And then they were either short and to the point of sharp and sarcastic; either way they all had a certain, irritating wit about them that just about pushed him to the edge. Then Sands reminded himself that he _needed _those sons of bitches to do the dirty work whenever he was busy, so that kept them alive.

'_For a while, anyway,_' he smirked silently.

"It's all . . . very . . . complicated," Sands told him, trying to sound like he was being reassuring while keeping up his careless composure. "I'm sure you –"

"You think I would not understand?" the man shot at him, his Italian ethnicity seeming more present than it had before. Damiano could feel his muscles flexing underneath the brown tailored suit he wore. He was a very well built man, certainly much more toned than the CIA agent across from him. He could probably snap Agent Sands in two if he wanted. Damiano knew that Sands was well aware of this, however, the agent didn't seem worried in the least. He said whatever he wanted and did whatever he felt like doing and he didn't care what anybody thought about it.

"I didn't say that," the agent said, a smile tugging on his lips.

"We are free to think whatever we like, Agent Sands," Damiano spat, narrowing his brown eyes in vexation. Across the table, Sands smirked and nodded slightly, more to himself than to his hit man.

"Yes . . ." he agreed with quiet amusement, "we are."

- - -

Zebbidy filled her line of vision with a painting that she could not take her eyes off of. It wasn't an exceptionally fancy piece of artwork; just a nice pond with several water lilies floating on its surface, surrounded by reeds and cattails and marshy grasses. It was a very pretty scene; very peaceful and trainquil. Relaxing. It reminded her of something, but for the life of her she couldn't figure out what. Before she could do as she always did (think up lyrics to a song that would fit the occasion) Zebbidy heard a short yelp from behind her.

"Goddamn kid, stop stalking me!"

"Mais, mademoiselle – " (But, miss --)

"Why are you following me?"

"Je – " (I --)

"Did someone pay you? Agent Grosse, that scheming fuckwad; he put you up to this, didn't he? Do you know someone named Grosse?"

The little girl shook her head, her fair curls swinging wildly around her pale face.

"Non."

"Then why the hell are you . . . "Lynné held up a hand. "Hold on."

Quickly rising from the bench, she hurried over to Zebbidy, taking long, silent strides as she went.

'_Is there even a kid at all? How the fuck do I know that I didn't just make her up?_' she wondered frantically.

**_Relax, Lynnie, you're not going crazy – crazier, _**the voice corrected itself at once. **_You've just been reading into that Stephen King novel too much._**

****This was true. After finishing the second story in '_Four Past Midnight_' Lynné thought about her voice and the new people she encountered more and more. The story had a twist to it that made all the more paranoid. It had given her new thoughts about her voice and she had been wondering about disorders like schizophrenia and MPD ever since.

"Who's she?" Zebbidy asked the moment Lynné reached her. The other woman shrugged.

"Don't know, don't care, just wanna know why she's following me around," she muttered with a half glance at the little girl. Said child was staring around frantically, her already large eyes magnified with confusion. Zebbidy watched her for a time in a kind of transfixed wonder.

"Is . . . is something wrong with her . . . ?" she asked Lynné in a hushed toned.

The agent's only response was a shake of her head.

'_I think she might be blind._'

"Blind?" Zebbidy breathed, appalled.

Lyn gave her a strange look.

"She's blind, isn't she?" Zebbidy add-libbed to cover her slip up. "The little girl."

'_Damnit, why can I only catch bits of her thoughts?_' she demanded of herself.

"I have the sneaking suspicion that she is," Lyn confided quietly.

"Excusez-moi ?" (Excuse me?)

The girl seemed to have located Lynné by the sound of her voice. She was now tugging on the CIA agent's arm with all her might.

"Mademoiselle, vous devez vous dépêcher! Quelqu'un est après que vous!" (Miss, you have to hurry! Someone is after you!)

"What – who? Who's after me?" Lyn demanded, crouching down so she was eye-to-eye with the child.

"Mon oncle et mon grand-père!" (My uncle and my grandfather!) she cried in a frantically quiet voice, as though she knew it would be wrong to draw attention to herself. The girl looked around even though she could see nothing and pulled harder on Lynné's sleeve and ignoring Zebbidy completely. "Et une femme," (And a woman,) she added in a hiss of a whisper almost as if she was forbidden to speak of such things.

'_Probably is if she knows Poisson,_' Lyn thought spitefully.

"Okay, look, kid –"

"Je _ne peux pas_!" ( I _can't_!) she informed Lynné. With a stamp of her foot her hands were on her hips and she was glaring up at the American woman as though thoroughly irritated that she was not listening.

"Right, right, sorry," Lyn apologized quickly. "How do you know Poisson's after us? More importantly, _why _are you telling us this?"

"Mon oncle, il ne se soucie pas de moi; il veut sa nièce et il vous veut mort!" (My uncle, he doesn't care about me; he wants his niece and he wants you dead!)

Lynné stopped dead.

"Is your uncle Édouard Poisson?" she asked weakly. Beside her, Zebbidy paled.

The little girl shook her head impatiently.

"Non, il est mon grand-père. Son fils, Alphonse, est mon gardien." (No, he's my grandfather. His son, Alphonse, is my guardian.)

Lyn raised an eyebrow at her. A second later she reached out and took the girl by the wrist.

"Come on," she ordered determinedly to both the child and Zebbidy.

Without a word of explanation, she marched out of the room. Down the halls of the museum Lynné went, dragging the little girl with her and leaving Zebbidy to hurry along behind them.

- - -

"Déposez-nous juste à l'extérieur de la ville," (Just drop us off outside of town,) Lynné informed the driver feverishly, not wanting to bother with hiding her knowledge of the French language. Roughly and ignoring all protests, she pulled the little girl inside the taxicab. Silently, Zebbidy slid inside after her, all the while watching the cab driver in the rear view mirror. He was the same one from before. Coincidence? She thought not.

"How did you know it was me they were looking for if you're – " Lyn started.

"J'ai entendu votre voix! La première fois que je vous ai rencontrés j'ai appris par coeur votre voix, ainsi quand je vous ai rencontrés de nouveau je savais qu'il était vous. Alors, la nuit dernière j'ai entendu ma conversation d'oncle Alphonse et ensuite ils ont joué un . . . un enregistrement?" (I heard your voice! The first time I met you I memorized your voice, so when I met you again I knew it was you. Then, last night I heard my uncle Alphonse talking and then they played a . . . a recording?) The child looked up at Lyn with uncertainty.

"They have a recording of me?" she asked in amazement.

The girl nodded vigorously.

"Oui, c'est tout. J'ai reconnu votre voix, la Mlle! Et ensuite ils ont dit que vous étiez une femme du gouvernement américain et que vous étiez un problème et avez dû être gardés . . ." (Yes, that's it. I recognized your voice, miss! And then they said that you were a woman from the American government and that you were a problem and had to be taken care of . . .) She let her voice fade, not wanting to finish.

"And we all know what that means," Lyn completed for her.

Up front, the driver raised a gloved hand.

"Je sais que je fais," (I know I do,) he put in dryly. In the mirror she saw the corner of his mouth twist into an eclipse of a smile.

**_Is that bastard mocking you?_**

_I'd bet on it._

Lynné glared at him. Beside her, Zebbidy's eyes were slanted with irritation as well. The only difference was, she could see the man's eyes behind his dark glasses while the other woman could not. Zebbidy's sharp gaze penetrated the thin lenses that hid his eyes from her. They were brown. A color common in many people but it was the shade of the man's eyes that made them so intriguing. They were dark, extremely dark, and intense. But several weeks ago when she had run into the man's hotel room after nearly being suffocated by one of Poisson's assassins . . . she could have sworn his eyes had been green.

"No comment from you, mister," Lynné was saying sternly. "Just drive."

All sound was extinguished in the car as the driver leaned forward and turned on the ignition. The engine purred lowly in the front of the vehicle, and in a matter of seconds they were off. The moment the taxi began to move, Lynné spoke again.

"And the next time you're going to try and follow me, Sands . . . . I'd appreciate it if you at least found a decent moustache to wear because that one is absolutely unbelievable."

- - -

_Hmmm . . . so Sands was the cab driver all along, huh? Who'da thought it? Meh, I'm being annoying again, right? (waves hand dismissivly) Okay, okay, I'll stop before Sands whacks me over the head with a baseball bat. -.9; _

Sands: (lowering a bat with disappointment) It's for your own good. u.u

Sidney: -.e You mean _your _own good. XP

Sands: (raising a brow at her) Such a lady. 9.9

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**DragonHunter200: **I know what you mean; I really don't think Sands has gotten to manipulate anybody in this story. Not that much at least. Hopefully he had fun messing with minds in this chapter, though. ) (pictures Sands and Liam "bonding") Riiight about there is when the winged pig flies by and then world comes to an end.

**Dawnie-7: **lol, womanly bonding, I guess you could call it that, although I don't know if Lyn's ever bonded with anyone. And someday, Lynné _will_ be appreciated. u.u o.o If all goes as planed, at least. O.o'

**SexySparrow7: **(waves) Hi, new reviewer! Nice to hear that you like my stories. ) Heh, if you were thinking the cab driver, you were right. It was kinda obvious, especially after I put that author's note at the end, wasn't it? Ah well. And my Sands is an ass? (looks around) Yes! That means I'm keeping him in character hopefully! _Very _hard thing to do. 9.6;; Just for curiosity's sake, what's the other OUaTiM fic that you like? Is it on or another site? O.o? Thanks for reviewing, in any case. )

**The Gilatas Monster: **(holds up hands in defense) Fine, fine, okay, you caught me. I did that on purpose. Don't sue me, Steph, you know I don't gots any money. Well . . . actually I _do_ have some cash on me. I just don't flaunt the fact. u.u

_Oh, and one more thing. I recently read on a web site ) a quote said by Mr. Depp himself:_

"I don't care if they take my photo – although I don't know why anyone needs another picture of me, I don't care if they get Vanessa's photo, but when they take one of my kids, that I can't support."

_Obviously, this is where I got the idea for the newspaper article Stephan Damiano read to Sands earlier on in this chapter. But, more importantly is 's idea that if we don't go out and buy magazines that contain pictures of Johnny's children, then their value will go down and hopefully the paparazzi will realize that no one is interested and will leave Johnny and his kids alone. Hopefully if we all refuse to show interest in those tabloids things will slow down a bit. And even if they don't, we'd still be respecting Mr. Depp's wishes._

_Fight the power, guys!_

****


	13. Startling Realizations

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Thirteen:** Startling Realizations

Woo hoo! The bold, italics, and underlining is working for me! Correction. They're _still _(look! I used italics just then!) working for me! D!!! I've been at for almost two years and not once has that worked for me. And now it suddenly does . . . . (looks around nervously) Geh, I don't wanna jinx myself so I'll just end this here, write this chapter, then thank my reviewers, and be happy that you guys can finally read my stories the way I wanted you to read them. )

* * *

"I hope you don't have allergies, Fusco," Sands said to Liam. He entered the back door of their house, pulling off his false facial hair as he strode through the kitchen.

"Why?" the younger agent asked, perplexed.

"My sister's decided she wanted a pet."

Liam only blinked in confusion.

Sands rolled his eyes at this but pointed outside nonetheless. Coming up the small walkway were Zebbidy (her bemused stare in place as always), a slightly exasperated Lynné, and a little girl with pale blonde curls and huge brown eyes. What struck Liam as strange was not the fact that his partner had brought a child home but the fact that the little girl swung a long wooden cane around in front of her as she walked.

"What . . . where did she . . . _how_??" he stammered, looking to Sands for help. The other agent shrugged before ducking inside the refrigerator.

"She's Alphonse Poisson's niece, making her Édouard Poisson's granddaughter. See where I'm goin' with this?"

Liam nodded distractedly, saying, "Yeah, I see, but how did Lynné find her? Did she kidnap her or what?"

"From what Lyn said in the car," Sands' somewhat muffled voice drawled, "the kid had run into her twice before on coincidence. Then she met her again today at the Louvre and, ah, informed her that the Poissons knew_ alllll _about her."

While all of this worried Liam a great deal, Sands seemed strangely unperturbed by the sudden turn of events. He emerged from the 'fridge smiling in satisfaction at the pineapple in his hand.

_Thought she bought one of these_.

**_And just what are you gonna do with it, smart-ass?_**

_Wellll . . . I'm gonna wail it at somebody's head, that's what I'm gonna do,_ he snickered sadistically.

**_That's insane, you know_**, the voice informed him,**_ It doesn't make any Goddamn sense. . . . are you drunk?_**

****'_I might have had one or two shots, what're you getting at?_'

The voice let out a disgusted sigh.

**_You ass._**

****"That _ass_!" Lynné cussed as she stormed through the back door. The little girl followed suit, whacking Liam with her cane in the process.

"Ah!" the agent gasped, his hands flying to his left kneecap as he cringed in pain.

"_Désolé_!" (Sorry!) the little girl exclaimed, her eyes wide with fright. She was in a room full of Americans who were trying to destroy her family – if one could call them that – and she hadn't a clue as to where she was. Worst of all, she couldn't see. She had lost that sense when she had lost her parents. But did these people know that? They had to; they worked for le gouvernement américain. The American government.

From what she had heard Uncle Alphonse say, the government knew everything about a person, even if they chose to deny it. They took in regular people who had what was called 'potential,' trained them up a bit, then sent them out on missions. And when those people emerged from training, they were changed; they had been turned into machines that would kill innocents without a second look. What was stopping them from doing the same to her?

"Je suis désolé tellement," (I'm so sorry,) she stammered apologetically, "Je ne pouvais pas vous voir . . ." (I couldn't see you . . .)

"It's okay, um . . . honey," Liam assured her uncertainly. Zebbidy found herself wanting to laugh at the scene before her but succeeded in stifling the sudden urge. Leaning back against the kitchen counter, Sands was having a harder time hiding his amusement. Lyn, however, found no humor in any of this as she was having an agitated conversation with someone on her cell phone.

"I'm _not _saying that the Poissons know, Cat, just that it sounds that way. . . . . Catherine, you're getting too worked up over this. . . . . . If you start to cry, then you'll be turning into Grace. Do you really wanna go there? . . . . . I thought not. Now listen, all I gathered is that the Poissons know of _me_, all right? And they want me 'taken care of,' so to speak. What I need you and your bumbling team of incompetent schnooks to do is go out and find out as much as you can on the Poissons. What they know, what they don't know, how close they are – well, then we need an update, Cat," Lynné spat, vehemence prominent in her voice. "Contrary to popular belief, I _can't_ do all of this by myself. . . . . Fine. . . . Fine. . . . All right . . . 'Bye."

"Ah, sibling rivalry," Sands mused wistfully as he sliced up his pineapple, "No family relationship can be without it."

"Cat's not my sibling," Lyn muttered half-heartedly. She sighed and rubbed her eyes, feeling a sudden wave of fatigue hit her. "The Company's decided to worm their way into my operation again," she explained tiredly, "Apparently, they don't care for the way I handle things. And they were none too happy when I missed my meeting with one of the agents today."

"So they're pinning this on you," Sands stated rather than asked.

His sister laughed bleakly.

"As usual. I'm just surprised they haven't started on you."

"Oh, don't worry," Sands assured her confidently, "They will."

"Why would they do that?" Zebbidy wondered.

"Sands and I aren't exactly the CIA's favorite people," Lyn explained evenly. "I mean, let's face it, you can't see either of us being 'Agent of the Year,' can you?"

"There's an agent of the year?" Zebbidy questioned skeptically.

Sands and Lynné both paused in what they were doing (cutting a fruit into quarters and playing with a cell phone) to look Zebbidy's way and give her a 'yeah, _right_' expression.

"Lynné and Sands are sort of . . . well, nuisances at the CIA," Liam filled her in, his blue eyes darting nervously from his partner, to Sands, and back to Zebbidy again. Beside him, the little girl was wringing the hem of her lavender colored shirt between her fingers. Her brown eyes were large and fretful.

"They're excellent at what they do," Liam added hurriedly.

"Aww," Lyn cooed, a false smile on her face.

"I'm touched, Fusco, deeply." Sands told him before rolling his eyes and turning back to his pineapple. Liam shook his head at them.

"But, yeah, the Company doesn't care for how they go about things," he explained to Zebbidy, who nodded slowly in understanding.

"Well, that explains why they're stationed on the other side of the world, then," she said, grinning at the two agents in question.

Sands shrugged and tossed his diced pineapple into a small bowl. Having nothing to throw at Zebbidy that would contradict her comment, Lynné pocketed the idea and sat down at the breakfast nook. She fiddled with her cellular for a brief period; a second later, her eyes trailed away from the small black phone and landed on the child.

**_Yeeaah . . . almost forgot about _her _didn't ya?_**

****She had. But she knew why she had brought the kid along. The little girl was useful and if her family was after them, then Lynné would do whatever it took to bring them down. Fast and hard.

"What's your name, kid?"

The child's head snapped up. Her sightless eyes started up at Lyn intently.

"Joséphine," she answered softly. "J'ai six ans, juste donc vous savez." (I'm six, just so you know.)

"And you're Édouard Poisson's granddaughter," Lyn said slowly.

"Oui."

"Niece of _Alphonse _Poisson," she concluded.

"Oui, et il me déteste!" (Yes, and he hates me!) the girl, Joséphine, blurted, suddenly finding her voice.

"Where would you get that idea, sweetie?" a sympathetic Zebbidy asked, gliding over to Joséphine and putting a consoling hand on her shoulder. To her surprise, the child gave a small jump. Her head whipped around, her dark eyes searching for something she couldn't see.

"It's okay, dear," Zebbidy said soothingly, trying her best not to startle the child. If what she said was true, then Poisson and his men could be on top of them as they sat around their kitchen leisurely eating fruit. Her bright green eyes flickered to Sands momentarily but they quickly honed in on Joséphine.

"Qui sont tous d'entre vous?" (Who are all of you?) the child breathed uncertainly.

"Oh," Zebbidy gasped, realizing something, "I guess it would lessen the confusion if you knew who you were dealing with . . ."

The girl nodded silently.

"You can remember us by how our voices sound, I'm sure," Zebbidy said.

Again, the girl nodded.

"Okay, well, Lynné --"

"She knows me," Lyn cut in, picking at a hangnail and looking completely bored the entire time.

"Oui," Joséphine murmured, pushing a light curl out of her face.

"Okay," Zebbidy continued, smiling gently. "I'm Zebbidy –"

The little girl's eyes expanded considerably at this.

"Grand-père – " (Grandfather –) she began excitedly, but Zebbidy quickly shushed her.

"Yes. But you can't tell anyone that."

"Je comprends," (I understand,) Joséphine told her sincerely.

"Good. Umm . . . Liam, he's the one who you, uh –"

"Hit with your cane," Liam jumped in, smiling slightly. "It's okay, though. You just tapped me."

Joséphine gave him a look that said the obvious.

"C'est que j'_essayais_ de faire, le monsieur." (That's what I was _trying _to do, mister.)

Liam held up his hands and retreated a few steps. Despite the fact that he knew the girl couldn't see him, he wanted the others to know he was backing off. Extending a small arm, Joséphine pointed in the direction she had heard someone's voice coming from. It was the sort of like the one the woman she had met, Lynné, had only it was blatant that it belonged to a man.

"Et lui?" (And him?) she wanted to know.

"That's . . . . Sands," Zebbidy answered, looking at said man questioningly. "And I . . . don't know him by any other name."

"And you won't," Sands stated plainly. He paused for a moment, considering. "Unless you and I ever danced the forbidden dance, of course," he added, grinning wickedly.

Zebbidy arched an eyebrow, her nose twitched, and she calmly reached up and covered Joséphine's sensitive ears.

"Even if you and I ever _did _go there, baby, you'd only learn my middle name. Hate to disappoint you."

"That's fine," Zebbidy replied coolly, "I like a man of mystery."

Now Sands raised his brows, taking in the woman as if considering her as a possible bedmate.

**_Don't go brushing that one aside,_** the voice warned, **_I'm sure she could be a real tiger-ess if she wanted. Grrr._**

_Oh you are _sick, Sands cringed. _Admittedly, I can be less than charming but at least sex isn't what I'm all about. What would you say if I told you that I would just like to lay in front of a roaring fire with her and talk the night away with discussions about our feelings?_

There was a very long pause.

Time passed, and then Sands and the voice (mentally) burst out laughing. Meanwhile, at the kitchen table, Lyn was doing a fairly good job at hiding her own snickers. Liam, on the other hand, went through his normal routine.

'_Which is: Blink in confusion, panic, rub right arm unconsciously, then panic some more,_' Lyn thought with boredom. But her partner's antics humored her to no end, so she allowed her partner to perform his quirks and she herself watched them in her own perverse amusement.

Slowly, Zebbidy removed her hands from Joséphine's ears. The girl looked around at the four agents, her expression was both confused and questioning at the same time.

"Qui sont vous . . . ? Qui vous a envoyé ici?" (Who are you . . . ? Who sent you here?) she asked tentatively.

Liam, Sands, and Lynné all exchanged a dark look. Clearly, the thought of telling the girl that they were CIA wasn't high on their list of ideas. She may have told them that Poisson was aware of their presence and what they were trying to do, she may even let them in on some of the Mafia man's latest plans, but they couldn't take a chance in trusting her even if she was just a little girl.

**_So, what . . . ? You're going to kill her?_**

_No! _She didn't care for kids all that much – they bugged the hell out of her most of the time – but Lynné was outraged at the voice for even promoting such an idea. Murdering children was not her forte, no matter how much they got on her nerves.

**What _then?_**

_We simply tell her were someone else._

_**I don't think she's gonna believe that, Lynnie.**_

_I have to at least _see_ if she's naïve enough to fall for something else._

Slowly, Lyn kneeled down until she was level with Joséphine Poisson. Since Lynné made no sound whenever she moved, she nearly scared the little girl out of her wits when she spoke.

"Josey – if you don't mind me calling you that – did anyone ever tell you who I was?"

The girl shook her head.

"Non, j'ai seulement entendu de vous la nuit dernière. Même alors ils n'ont pas utilisé votre nom, mais, comme j'ai dit, je vous ai entendus sur un enregistrement et j'ai reconnu votre voix." (No, I only heard about you last night. Even then they didn't use your name, but, like I said, I heard you on a recording and I recognized your voice.)

"Did they ever mention who I was working for?"

To everyone's horror, Joséphine nodded eagerly.

"Oui, pour le gouvernement américain. Je ne sais pas juste lequel." (Yes, for the American government. I just don't know which one.)

From his position at the counter, Sands slowly closed his eyes. This just wasn't his day . . . week . . . mission . . . Whatever it was, things were not going his way. Worst of all, the CIA knew it, and they were gonna be on his ass faster than the middle aged, wind suit-wearing women that tried to jam into K Mart on Black Friday.

* * *

The droning of the anchorman blared on, his bland voice boring all of them into a stupor. Needless to say, it wasn't long before Lynné decided to start a game of poker, Zebbidy joined her, Liam had retrieved his beloved laptop, and Sands pulled out a book he had been reading ('_Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey into the Heart of the American Dream_'). Joséphine had fallen asleep leaning up against him some time ago, much to Sands' chagrin, but Lyn and Zebbidy had reached what Sands considered to be a women's mutual truce. They had banned together and ganged up on him, both agreeing that he should leave the child alone, and thus, he was stuck. Stealing a quick look at the child next to him, Sands held back a grimace.

_Snot-nosed little monkey_, he thought blandly, _At least she's clean . . ._

Sands glanced up at the TV. Nothing stimulating; nothing thought-provoking. Nothing the news held grabbed at his attention. Back to the book, then. At least it sparked his interest.

A small chime echoed throughout the living room, alerting everyone that someone had just sent an Instant Message. Lynné and Zebbidy looked up from their game of poker to shoot irate glances in Liam's direction, or, more specifically, the direction of his laptop. He had set it up on the coffee table so he would not be separated from the other four.

"Who is it?" Sands inquired, not looking up from his book.

"Your si – step-sister," Liam amended with a small sigh. He wasn't too crazy about Catherine either.

"Why is that girl in the CIA?" Lyn asked no one in particular, splaying her cards between her fingers.

"Calmness, Lyn," Sands said, bored, "At least they gave her a desk job."

"True," his sister admitted, laying a card face up on the coffee table. Across from her, Zebbidy scowled at it. "They could've sent her out into the world . . . imagine what _that _would be like." Lyn shuddered.

"Don't want to," Sands replied.

"What does she have to say, Liam?" Lyn wanted to know.

A second chime rang before her partner answered.

"She says that she wants to meet you –"

"Not happening."

"—and Sands –"

"Nooo . . ." Sands moaned gravely, shaking his head.

"— at La Notre Dame. "

"So original," Lynné muttered.

"Tomorrow."

Lyn sighed, massaging the bridge of her nose and ignoring the strange looks Zebbidy was giving the three of them.

"Tell her we'll be there . . ." she said slowly.

_But only if _she _makes sure she's absent._

**_Yeah, _**the voice agreed enthusiastically, **_tell 'er to send someone else._**

_Can't, darlin,' sorry. Knowing my stepsibling, Cat'd never go for it._

_**Ahhh, you're no fun.**_

_Think of it this way . . . . If I _do _go and she's there . . . then I can at least show up looking as unprofessional as possible and feed her a few lines of bullshit that're bound to piss her off._

_**Hmm . . . tempting . . . . And I do so **_**love _to torment Cat. . . . . All right. Tell her you'll be there._**

****"Okay, I told her," Liam said brightly.

If it was capable, Lynné was sure that the voice would be making a horrible face at Liam right then.

"What are we gonna do about the kid?" Sands spoke up, motioning to the sleeping girl. As if hearing her name, Joséphine shifted into a more comfortable position, still using Sands as a pillow the entire time. Said agent rolled his eyes at her.

"We gonna tell her?" he asked.

"Come on, Sands, you know Cat. She'll wheedle all the information she can out of her and then dump her in an orphanage."

"And you suddenly care if that happens?" Liam asked, grinning.

"I just don't want Catherine to be the one pumping her for info," Lynné replied, narrowing her eyes at him. "If anyone's gonna do that, it'll be an expert."

"Namely you?" Zebbidy questioned, eyebrows raised.

"If you knew our stepsister, then you'd agree that she's no negotiator," Sands informed her before submerging himself in his book once again.

"Example," Lyn began. When she spoke again, her entire attitude had changed. Suddenly she now spoke in a high, friendly voice complete with feigned sweetness. "Ohhh . . . hi, Joséphine! May I call you Josey? Okay! Say, d'you think you can tell me alllll about your grandpa? Like how much he knows, what he's planing to do, what kind of hookers he likes – that sorta thing. Think you can help me out a little, honey? Huh?"

Sands smirked from behind his book, marveling at the Lynn's uncanny imitation of Catherine. Liam continued to type away at his computer but he too was biting back a laugh. A smile creeping across her visage, Zebbidy waved her cards in Lyn's face, indicating that she wanted to get back to their game.

_We've been in this house together for too long, _she thought absently, though she was surprised to notice that not a trace of regret lingered in her voice. _Liam isn't as twitchy around me as he used to be, Lynn's all right, and I'm even beginning to tolerate Sands._

_Oh, hell, I more than tolerate him, let's be honest._

She wasn't in love with the man or anything – such thoughts hadn't even crossed her mind until now – but, still . . . living with him wasn't so terrible. The idea even had its perks, though Zebbidy wasn't about to yield to any of them. Nor would she accept what some of them might be. Still, it was nice to know that she could now be in the same room with the man for over an hour without wanting to slap him silly.

From his position on the couch, Sands eyes hovered momentarily on his sister's and Zebbidy's card game. Cards was something their father didn't approve of, in fact, he had forbid it, so, of course, Sands and his sister had made sure they were experts in such games as poker, bridge, and gin rummy. Lyn was going to whoop Zeb's ass, no question.

Zebbidy wasn't half bad, though, he had to admit. But Lynn's sheer determination not to loose would make sure that she would defeat her opponent as she always did, whether it be in a simple game of cards or gunfight like one would see in the old Westerns, she would win. But something about the idea of Zebbidy beating Lynné intrigued Sands, and he was not sure why.

**_Oooh . . . rooting for the other girl now, are ya? _**the voice chided. **_Y'know what you should do? Wait 'til it rains really hard, and then go out into the back yard, and coax them into mud wrestling. Two gorgeous women covered in mud . . . _God _that would be hot –_**

_One of those gorgeous women happens to be my sister, so if you'd kindly back off –_

_**Oh, come on. Like you've never wanted to see Lyn na–**_

_Christ, will you shut up!? _

_**Zebbidy, then.**_

He could have just admitted it, and why not? It wasn't like telling the flat out truth was a new thing to him. He did it a lot just to startle people because they thought he would lie to them. But for some reason, he would not bring himself to acquiesce to certain things; it would feel as if he had given in, like he had lost to the voice. So much like his sister, Sands didn't like loosing.

At some point throughout this mental fiasco, Joséphine seemed to have sensed something wasn't right. Unsettled, she reached out in her sleep, and encircled her tiny arm around Sands' waist.

* * *

_I_

_think I'm gonna leave off here. I originally wanted to throw a dream sequence in there at the end as a way to finish this chapter off. But then I couldn't help but find that ending scene very cute and gushy and all that jazz so I decided to leave it at that. Don't worry, I'll have the dream in the next chapter. (tauntingly) And it's a flaaaaashbaaaack . . . ) _

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**Dawnie-7: **_Very _happy to hear that you like the little girl. . Seems like everbody's been taken over by her cuteness save for Sands and Lyn, of course.

Lynné: (smokes carelessly) I know what kids are really hiding behind those cherub faces. -.e They make you _think _that they're completely innocent, then –

Zebbidy: -- they move in for the kill. u.u

Lynné: . . . . I was going to say 'they stab you in the back' but whatever. (blows a smoke ring) u.u

**vanillafluffy: **lol, really, if she isn't able to read Lyn or Sands' every thought, Zeb should be grateful.(pictures Joséphine with a wide-brimmed black hat and a shovel) o.o' I finally realized (about half way through the story -.9;;) that Sands hadn't worn any of his 'masterful' disguises! o Dunno how I could forget that.

**The Gilatas Monster: **) Come on, I did that one on purpose and you know it! Heheheh . . . I'm so evil I need a stupid henchman . . . Hah, I love quoting. Anyway, I _knew _you'd go for the idea! You rock, Stephie! And I won't let anything happen to Stephan Damiano. . . . or, at least . . . I'll _try _not to let anything happen. Ya never know . . . D

**morph: **It's cool. My Internet used to be down all the time 'til I finally got MSN. (Note: AOL EVIL) Glad you reviewed, though, and that you thought that posing as the cab driver was something Sands-like. It's _very _relieving cuz y'know how I worry about keeping him in character. Good to know you liked the last two chapters, too – thanks!

**DragonHunter200: **lol, join the club; I'm never right either. .

Oh my God! I just realized this! It's Friday the Thirteenth! o And I'm posting the _thirteenth _chapter of my story tonight! Man, that's creepy. O.o;;

Sands: I guess this makes you Goth or something.

Sidney: Nah. I'm too worried about nature and the ozone to be Goth. FIGHT THE POWER!

Sands: (pumping his fist in the air) Legalize it! u.u

o


	14. Forgotten Memories

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Fourteen:** Forgotten Memories 

Another day, another chapter. I'm kinda disappointed, though, cuz soon I'll be back at skool and I don't know how that'll affect chapter updates. I'll certainly try to update regularly, of course. I'm just saying that it might be harder because of studying and all that. I'm not in cross-country this year, though, (hallelujah -.-;) so that'll probably make things a lot easier. Physically, anyway. O.o;;

* * *

Alphonse Poisson paced the floor of his father's office, hands clasped behind his back, eyes focused directly on the expensive flowered rug below him. Two more identical rugs covered the hardwood floor just like the two large bookshelves that ran the length of the spacious room. They were stationed on either side of the office. At the front there was a pair of huge oak doors and towards the back was his father's desk made of rich cherry wood. The desk was monstrous, Alphonse had always thought, it had so many drawers filled with who knew what. Papers, spare pens, files, small handguns . . . Whatever the desk held was no business of his, but searching through it was the first thing on his agenda the moment his father was six feet under.

But that wouldn't happen for a while.

From behind his mammoth desk, Édouard Poisson riffled through a stack of papers, each containing a picture and an extensive biography of each of his thugs. Two in particular stood out in his mind. Both of the men had . . . misinterpreted . . . his orders, he supposed. They were lucky they had been killed before completing their missions because they certainly would have had a much slower, more painful death had they returned.

Vincent Poisson, son of Édouard, older brother of Alphonse sat on the pale yellow feinting couch calmly reading a magazine. The last two hit men his father had sent out had fucked up big time, Zebbidy Samhain had yet to be brought to them, and now his little niece Joséphine was missing. But he couldn't be bothered with that right now; he was too busy seeking out his horoscope.

"She is a powerful woman . . ." Alphonse muttered to his father, "She _knows _the sort of things she is capable of – _you _know it as well!" he added, pointing a dramatic finger at his father, who didn't even bother to look up.

"Fils, you worry yourself too much," he said tiredly as if they had already been through this a hundred times. "She'll come back."

"You've said that before –"

"I was _right_," his father stated plainly, laying the neatly stacked papers aside. "She _will _come back; she always does."

"But –"

"Don't you remember, Alphonse?" Vincent stepped in, "Zebbidy ran away a countless number of times as a child. How many of those times could she have been successful?"

". . . more than half," his brother admitted reluctantly.

"Except . . ." Vincent prodded.

"Except she came back . . ." Alphonse said quietly, "She always came back . . ."

"Why, though?" Vincent inquired of his father.

"Simple, mes fils," Édouard answered, "Zebbidy had nowhere else to go. She lived with us in luxury, yes, but she never had any money of her own. And she hardly knew her way around outside of Paris."

"You made sure of that, father," Alphonse chuckled, with a nasty smile.

Nodding seriously, Édouard continued.

"That I did. We couldn't have her leaving, now, could we? We _need _her."

"But how do we know she'll come back?" Alphonse demanded. "Zebbidy is a grown woman now, she knows what she's doing, she knows the world. You trained her to grow up an intellectual . . . She will not return to this place. She knows better."

"She _will _return, Alphonse," his father said sternly, "She and the CIA especially are growing restless. They do not like staying in hiding. They want it all to end. And if that means giving Zebbidy to us . . ." He paused, drawing the tension up a notch. ". . . then so be it."

* * *

"I _never_ want to go back inside one of those things again!" eleven-year-old Catherine announced in disgust as she stormed into the Egyptian-style suite.

"Aww, but Cat," Lynné of almost-eight said as she came in after her, "I thought you liked family reunions."

"What d'you mean?" her older stepsister snapped, narrowing her eyes in suspicion.

"If you're too dumb to figure it out, I'm not tellin' ya."

"Beatrice!" her father thundered, outraged.

Lynné didn't respond. Instead, she sat down on the blue and white striped couch, picked up the TV remote, and began flipping through the channels.

"Beatrice!" This time Catherine looked worried, but Lyn remained calm and unconcerned.

"She only answers to Lynné, Dad," Sands of twelve years explained as he entered the room.

"She'll answer when spoken to," his father roared, glaring at the little girl on the couch.

"But you weren't talking to me," Lyn said calmly, not looking at her father.

"Apologize to Catherine this instant, young lady," her father demanded, looking infuriated that a seven-year-old was defying him.

"Not gonna apologize for something that's true," Lyn replied coolly, a note of defiance in her voice.

"Fine then!" Her father glared furiously at her, but she refused to acknowledge him. "If that's the way you're gonna be, then you can just stay here – "

"And thing about what you've done," Lynné mouthed as her father spoke.

"You're not going to the next pyramid with us," her father said with the smug look of one who had just condemned a person to a horrible sentence. Lynné, who could really care less, continued to flip through the channels. Catherine on the other hand, looked completely revolted.

"I have to go to another one of those things but Lynné gets to stay here!?" She stamped her foot; Lyn snickered. "That's not fair!"

"Life isn't always fair, Catherine, now get moving. We only stopped in here so you could get your sunglasses."

Even though she had outgrown throwing temper tantrums long ago, Catherine found the notion very tempting at the moment. However, her stepfather's own temper was running high and even if she _couldn't _figure out Lynné's smart comments, she was still smart enough to know that Stepdaddy's patients was not something to be tried. So, she settled for pouting instead.

Her efforts went unnoticed, however, because at that moment her stepfather chose to walk out the door, leaving Catherine alone with her hated stepsiblings.

Her lower lip still protruding noticeably, Catherine stormed over to the coffee table and snatched up her pink tinted specks, glaring at Lynné the entire time. In return, Lyn kept her eyes focused on the television in front of her, but a small grin crept across her face when she heard her stepsister turn to leave.

"I'm looking at the world through rose colored glasses . . ." Lyn sang softly under her breath, grinning more broadly as the song went on.

Catherine, though she had never heard the song before, knew she was being insulted and left the suite in a huff. Shortly after, Sands entered from the bedroom shoving a multicolored hat on his head. He stopped in his tracks, took one look around the seemingly empty hotel room, and started at Lynné.

". . . . . . . They left me again, didn't they?"

"Mmmhmm."

"I knew it."

"Oh, don't feel so bad," Lyn told him, going 'round the channels for what had to be the twelfth time. "The heat out there's terrible."

"I _know_," Sands said, rolling his eyes. "I just wanted to visit a pyramid that actually had a mummy in it."

"None of 'em do," Lyn said offhandedly, "If you wanna see mummies go visit a museum. All of the tombs that are open to tourists have been emptied out."

"All of the ones we've been to, you mean."

"No," she said confidently, "all of them. Do you really think that they'd leave something as valuable as a mummy alone in a dilapidated –"

"Dilapidated?" Sands interrupted, intrigued that his eight-year-old sister knew such a word.

"Yes, dilapidated pyramid where stupid people like Cat can poke at it an' stuff?"

Sands grinned and took a seat next to her on the couch. Snatching the remote away, he said:

"Something tells me that Cat isn't the one to poke at dead guys."

"If somebody paid her, she would. And you might as well turn the TV off. There's nothing on."

"Don't tell me twice," Sands stated. The TV clicked and went blank.

"So," Lynné began, looking up at her brother expectantly, "wanna find one of those scarab beetles and put it in Catherine's bed?"

This earned her an arched eyebrow.

"Those things eat _flesh_, Lyn. _Human_ flesh."

An evil smirk spread across his sister's face.

"I know."

* * *

Blinking blearily to bring moisture back to her dry eyes, Lynné gave a small start when she saw a dark figure sitting on the edge of her bed. The person didn't noticed. Slowly, Lyn reached under her pillow, ready to shoot the intruder if necessary. Even if it _weren't _necessary, she'd still shoot the bastard; he'd entered her room unwanted, hadn't he? And people like that needed to learn.

"Care to explain?" she asked in a cool voice.

Now it was the figure's turn to jump. In his panic, the figure topple over onto the bed, his face falling into the patch of silvery moonlight that spilled from the open window. Lynné stared looking very unhappy, not to mention annoyed.

"Liam?"

Her partner's eyes widened and he stared up at her, looking startled.

**_Or, _**the voice prodded, **_like he's been caught in the act!_**

_You are so _not _funny, do you know that?_

"Oh," Liam gasped, a nervous grin breaking out on his face, "um, um . . . hi."

"What in the hell –"

"Mademoiselle!"

"Oh, Christ . . . what, kid?"

"Je ne pouvais pas dormir," (I couldn't sleep,) Joséphine answered plainly.

". . . . . Where are you going with this, Josey?"

"Lynné," Liam cried, as if it were obvious.

"Oh, fine," Lyn muttered grudgingly. Sighing in annoyance, she glared at Joséphine who glared right back.

"Lui aussi," (Him too,) she insisted, pointing a delicate finger directly at Liam. Both sets of eyes widened now, Lynné's and her partner's.

"No," Lyn said, shaking her head, "If you wanna sleep with him, you go to _his _bed."

"Son lit est un canapé!" (His bed is a couch!) Joséphine said angrily, "Je ne dors pas sur un canapé!" (I'm not sleeping on a couch!)

"Well, where were you sleeping then, if not a couch?"

"Avec Zebbidy," (With Zebbidy,) she answered simply, climbing into the soft, queen-sized bed and sitting up next to her.

"So why'd you leave her bedroom?" Liam asked.

"Why'd _you _leave _your _bedroom?" Lynné retorted.

"Uh," he stammered worriedly, "ehm . . . what were _you _muttering about?"

Lyn quirked an eyebrow. "Muttering?"

"In your sleep," Liam explained. "Something about beetles?"

"I was dreaming I was doing the nasty with the entire rock band," she lied. "All four members . . . and even the others, y'know, before Ringo came along . . . all at once."

"Wow . . ."

"Yeah, well." Lyn shrugged. "I'm a big fan, what can I say. You should hear Sands when he's having one of his Rolling Stones dreams."

"I . . . don't think . . . I want to . . ." Liam said testily.

Meanwhile, Joséphine had fumbled her way around the bed and was now sitting between the two CIA agents, she looked tired, but the tone of her voice would suggest otherwise.

"Qu'allez-vous faire avec moi?" (What are you gonna do with me?) she asked, looking between the both of them.

"Do you have any other family?" Lyn sighed.

Joséphine shook her head.

"Non . . . . Puis-je rester avec vous?" (No . . . . Can I stay with you?) she asked, looking hopeful.

No one spoke for a while. Even though she couldn't see the looks on their faces, Joséphine knew that Lynné and Liam were thinking her question over. She was eager for an answer – good or bad – but she thought it best not to interrupt them.

_Christ_, Lyn swore, aggravated, _I don't want a fucking kid – I don't even _like _kids._

_**You sure about that?**_

_Yes, I'm sure. . . . . aren't I?_

_**Why Beatrice Lynné Sands, I do believe you're growing emotions.**_

_Fuck off._

Leaning back against the pillows, making it clear that she intended to go back to sleep, Lynné said, "We'll see, kid," before turning over and ignoring them both.

* * *

The scorching rays from the Egyptian sun was intense – beyond intense -- but the light green awning that hung over the small golf cart provided some small source of protection. It failed to save them from the heat, however. The sun's rays beat down on them, showing no mercy for the car's two young passengers.

"Dad's gonna be mad that you stole the club's car."

"Golf cart, and he won't unless he find out. Besides . . . I'm only borrowing it."

"You're only eleven, cheese-dick, you shouldn't be driving anything."

"And you're seven, you shouldn't be swearing, fuckmook. Where did you learn to cuss like that?"

"Watching shows Dad says not to," Lynné answered simply, adjusting the floppy straw hat on her head. In the driver's seat, Sands pushed his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose and eased the execrator pedal down to the floor.

"So," Lyn began, "why DID you take Dad's golf car?"

"Would you rather walk around the desert?"

"No."

"Okay, then."

Lynné rolled her eyes behind her dark glasses. Dust continued to churn, making her grateful that she had brought bottled water. Beside her, Sands wiped the sweat off of his brow and Lyn noticed him tighten his grip on the steering wheel, almost as if he couldn't maintain control of the vehicle for much longer.

"Where'd you learn to drive this thing anyway?" she asked cautiously.

"Had to do something whenever Dad took me to the golf course. I wasn't gonna caddy for him, so this was pretty much my only –"

He never finished. He never had a chance to. At that moment, the tiny car hit something; a rock a mummy, whatever it was it was something hard and solid instead of the soft sand. The golf cart went flying, its miniature wheels not accustomed to rolling over anything other than turf or gravel. It went rolling along the ground at an uncontrollable speed, tossing both of its passengers around inside as a jumble of flailing arms and legs. Such rough movements were bound to leave more than a share of scrapes and bruises between the both of them, but neither Lyn nor Sands cared at the moment. The only thing that mattered was making it out of the wreckage alive.

Lynné had her seatbelt on; Sands didn't. The only thing Lyn felt was the sharp tug of the straps pulling her back as she pitched forward where she sat. While his sister was saved from harm, Sands was thrown forward. Lyn could only watch in a kind of fascinated horror as her brother flew out of the car, his limbs thrashing and his eyes wide with terror. When he hit the ground and, there was no mistaking it, an awful '_CRACK_' filled the air. Sands had landed on his left leg and Lynné feared the worst.

Wasting no time in leaping from the badly damaged golf cart, Lyn rushed to her brother's side. His breathing was now going double-time, but other than that he made no sound. Lyn felt her teeth sink into her lower lip when she saw that Sands' had his eyes closed. And closed they would remain. He didn't want to have to look at his most definitely mangled leg.

"Sands?"

He heard Lyn speaking, but he chose not to answer. Not now. Now all he wanted to do was get back to the hotel, collapse onto the luxurious bed, and sleep. It was a stupid want, and Sands knew it because the pain that tore through his leg was nothing short of unbearable. He'd never be able to sleep with that coursing through him unless he fainted, and he wasn't going to let anything like that happen. Not in front of Lynné; not in front of anyone.

"I think it's just broken . . ." he heard Lyn say from some far off distant land. He felt his head being lifted gently. When it was replaced, it was resting on top of something Sands could not identify. It was like a scratchy cushion.

_Lyn's hat, _he realized.

"How would you know?" Sands hissed out loud with his teeth clenched defiantly.

"Grace broke her arm last year, remember? It kinda looked like this only . . ."

"Only _what_?" he demanded at her silence.

"Only not as bad," Lyn snapped, annoyed.

_I'm trying to help him and he's being a jerk!_

_**That's how he is, kid. Would you rather he acted like a whiney little wuss?**_

_No, you've got a point . . ._

"Ohh . . ." her brother gasped suddenly. His eyelashes fluttered in one blurred motion, as though he wanted to open his eyes but couldn't bring himself to do it.

"Oh God . . ." he breathed faintly, "oh _God _I was stupid . . . I was really stupid . . ."

"I'd say 'no, you weren't' but then you'd just call me an idiot," Lyn cracked, smiling weakly.

Sands gave a weary laugh but still refused to open his eyes.

"Dad's gonna kill me . . . Or, no. No . . . he'll let me stay like this and not take me to the hospital. Or he _will _take me to the hospital but he won't let the doctors give me any morphine. Say I'm allergic or something like that . . ."

"If he does, I'll kick his ass," Lyn assured him.

Biting his tongue, Sands barely held back a yell as more pain ripped through his leg. It didn't subside like the last time. Now it rocketed throughout his entire body, sending bolts of agony through his already battered limbs.

"Oh God . . ." he heard Lynné mutter to herself.

Something in his sister's tone made him want to look up at her. Sands always hated hearing her when she was worried, and right now she was on the very edge of hysteria. He couldn't hold himself back anymore. At last, Sands opened his eyes. They locked with his sister's for one brief moment before they were forced shut again when another wave of pain fell over him.

"What're we gonna do . . . ?" Sands asked. The sound of his voice both surprised and angered him. He sounded so weak, so helpless, like he had been pleading to his sister for some sort of positive answer one that he knew she wouldn't have. He hated feeling that way, but there wasn't any choice.

"Lyn?"

"I don't know," she replied, sounding far beyond worry. Lyn stared off into the distance hoping to see people coming, a gas station, anything that could aid them. Nothing but the swirling sand could be seen. Lynné sighed harshly, wishing she had something to tap her fingernails against. The quiet, rhythmic drumming helped to clear her warped mind, she always thought.

"What do you mean?" Sands panted tiredly, the ache shinning painfully bright in his dark eyes.

"I don't know."

* * *

So that was why he didn't remember Egypt.

Restless, Sands turned over on the daybed in the living room that had served as his sleeping quarters for the past three months.

But it all, at the risk of sounding cliché, came flooding back to him now. There had been so much pain, so much agony engulfing him at that time that he really _had _passed out. Unwillingly, of course, but it wasn't like that mattered. He had lost consciousness and had probably scared Lynnie shitless. Or maybe not. Even as an seven-year-old Lynné was already becoming well known for her coolheaded-ness.

Sands wasn't sure how the hell she had gotten help. Flagged someone down, perhaps? Snagged the concern of some kind tourist, who took pity on two poor stranded children, one of whom was suffering from a broken leg? Maybe. But Sands didn't know and if anyone had ever told him, he didn't remember. Didn't care either. All he _did _remember, however, was hearing his stepsister's voice full of malice . . .

* * *

"What were you _thinking _taking the car like that, Sheldon? You're twelve years _old_, you can't run around Rob's car. How stupid are you?"

With a bored, uncaring expression on his face, Sands let his head lull to one side, not wanting to look at Catherine. The doctors had stepped in and given him morphine before his father could make up some excuse as to why they shouldn't.

"Traipsing around the desert doing who _knows _what and destroying _my _golf cart in the process! _**What **the **hell **were you **thinking**_!?!" his father had yelled earlier.

The words echoed in his head, but Sands merely shrugged them off. His eyelashes felt like they each weighed about as much as he did (which wasn't much). The drugs had put him in a drowsy state, and he was growing increasingly sleepy as time passed.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you, young man!" he heard his father roar over an over in his head. The furious, hate-filled words rang in Sands' mind. Fine. Let them ring. He didn't care.

He was in trouble; he knew it. And he _had _been foolish to take the car; he knew that too. But Sands could really care less at the moment. All he wanted to do was sleep. The hospital bed he was lying on was so comfortable . . .

"You put Beatrice in danger . . ." Cat's words seemed to waver as she spoke. A result of the drugs, no doubt.

That was true . . .

". . . could've gotten her _killed_ . . ."

Was she taunting him?

"Good thing her injuries weren't serious . . ."

_That _caught his attention. He could have gotten Lyn seriously hurt or even killed. That thought had never even occurred to him until now. What if Lyn had been badly injured? She could have been the one wearing the itchy cast instead of him.

_What if she had died . . . ?_

Even his thoughts sounded small and meek, two things that didn't suit him well at all. For the first time Sands noticed that Lynné was not present in the room. Immediately, panic filled his system.

"Where is she?" he demanded of his stepsister, all the while forcing himself to remain calm. Sands tried to sit up but the drugs made him dizzy and he soon found himself slumped up against the pillows again.

"Where is she?" he asked again, this time more quietly.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Cat replied, grinning evilly.

"Tell me, Cat, I mean it –"

"Go away, Catherine," someone snapped irritably. "You're the last person he wants to see."

"Lynné!" Cat whined pathetically.

His sister looked, save for a few bruises here and there, completely fine. Cat had been leading him on, the evil cow. And he, like an idiot, had almost believed her.

_**Yeah, well, just because you're a child genius doesn't mean you have any common sense.**_

"What're _you _doing here?"

"Getting rid of you," Lyn answered simply. "Now, if you don't mind . . ."

Cat left in a huff, a normal reaction Sands and Lynné knew all too well. Lyn followed her older stepsister out of the room with her eyes the entire time. When at last Catherine was out of sight, Lyn turned back to her injured brother to find him wearing the same accomplished smirk as her.

"Are you okay?" Lyn asked with care as she walked over to the bed.

"Fine," Sands answered, shrugging. "Dad yell at you?"

"A little. You?"

"A lot," Sands replied resentfully. "You know Dad. It's always a comfort to know he cares so much."

"I know _I _feel safe knowing that he's there for me," Lyn said, climbing up onto the bed and sitting next to him. Sands raised an eyebrow and looked at her with disbelief.

"He supports you in everything you do?"

"Of course," she replied, rolling her eyes.

Feeling suddenly drained now that the danger had passed, Sands felt his eyelids grow heavy once again. He quickly shifted so his head was now cushioned on his sister's shoulder. Lyn didn't seem to mind. Perhaps she too had grown exhausted after that day's exhilarating events.

Lynné felt her brother's head on her arm, but it didn't bother her. She was wiped, thoroughly wiped, by the car wreck. The heat of the day had gotten to her as well, burning out the young girl's adrenaline. Slowly, she began to close her eyes.

The two siblings sleeping next to one another looked like the perfect Kodak moment, but before anyone could snap a picture, an angry voice broke through the peaceful silence.

"Where is she!?"

"Sir, if you would just –"

"Don't tell me to calm down, young lady. I have a right to see my children, now, _where **are **they_!?"

"Mr. Sands, I'm sure they're fine–" the flustered female doctor tried to assure him.

"Oh, you're _sure _but you don't _know_," their father scoffed coldly.

"I know where they are, Rob!" an excited voice piped up. Cat. She sounded eager to spill her guts, as if doing such would get her into her picky stepfather's good books. Probably would. Good for her. Neither Sands nor Lynné tried nor cared.

The sound of a door crashing open roused Lyn from her sleep, but not a lot. It was only her father come to bellow at them about irresponsibility again, so she didn't even bother to open her eyes. Beside her, Sands did not stir at all. Unlike his sister, sleep had taken over him entirely.

"Beatrice, Sheldon!" their father yelled with fury that would have sent most people running to the hills.

Catherine stood next to him, her hands clasped in front of her, with bright, excited eyes that read 'You guys are in _sooo_ much trouble' all too clearly.

"What the _hell _were you two doing –"

"Mr. Sands," the doctor said sternly. "These may be your children, but they are my patients. It's obvious that they've had a very tiring day. If you would kindly wait in the coffee room, I'll be finished here in a few minutes. I just need to check on Sheldon's cast and see how he's doing."

Their father must have made some sort of motion to show that he wasn't going to stand by and let some know-it-all doctor tell him what to do because the woman said sharply:

"They'll be fine. It's just that they need their rest."

"If you think you can talk to me like that and still expect pay –"

"They need their rest," she repeated, this time more forcefully than before.

Sands and Lynné heard the squeak of their father's shoes against the shinny linoleum as he turned sharply and exited the room. They heard his swift, aggravated steps for several seconds before the sounds abruptly stopped.

"Catherine," their father ordered sharply.

There was a disappointed sigh from Cat who obviously thought it unfair that she wasn't allowed to stay and torment her stepsiblings, but it was soon followed by the sounds of sandals against a polished floor, which relieved both Sands and Lynné.

From her place at the doorway, the doctor took the scene of the father and his stepdaughter stalking angrily down the hall and exchanged it for the nicer photo of the sleeping little boy, who was resting against his sister, who was beginning to doze off as well.

As quietly as she could, the doctor walked over to the slumbering pair. She carefully pushed a few arrant strands of hair out of the little girl's face, but she had no sooner reached out when the child's brother swatted the hand away as he slept, making it clear that he didn't want anyone, even a doctor, disturbing his sister. As she watched this, the doctor withdrew her hand and smiled.

* * *

Such dreams were pleasant, even comforting, Sands might have even considered them a nice change from the horrific nightmares he had been having. But this dream, like all the others, would not stay peaceful for long. Sooner or later things would take a turn for the worst, and the dream would suddenly morph into a terrible nightmare filled with drills and screams and Ajedrez's cruel laughter. Perhaps it was because of this that Sands found himself being thankful when he was yanked sharply from his tranquil thoughts when someone let out a sudden yell.

* * *

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_Oooh, suspense, suspense! Or at least I hope so, anyway. Don't have much to say here 'cept my family and I are going to a national park tomorrow. Should be pretty nifty. But the thing is, I won't be around to write for I don't know how long, so if the next chapter is a little late, I'm sorry. No outlets for laptops out in the woods, gang._

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**Dawnie-7: **Oh, yeah, isn't Cat lovely? Or, wait, make that nasty – no, cruel – what the heck, she's just downright evil. Sands and Lyn will get under her skin in the next chapter, though, rest assured. u.u

**morph: **I'm gonna write some action into this story somewhere in upcoming chapters. ) And Josey's blindness will be explained, of course. Good choice of song, too, lol.

**vanillafluffy: **I'm guessing you're talking about Liam when you say 'some needed more training?' lol. Meh, Sands voice is . . . well, putting it bluntly, disgusting, perverted, and just plain sick. But, as it's mentioned, it's just a voice, not a real person or anything so I'm thinking that it just doesn't see things like watching your own sister fight another woman in the mud while wearing nothing as wrong. That still doesn't stop it from being perverted though. XP

**TheDmntdFerret: **Seems like a lot of people haven't been able to get online lately. o.o;; Hope a virus isn't going around. Thanks for reviewing, though, and I'm glad to hear that this story's still keeping your interest. )

**DragonHunter200: **Books are almost always better than their movies, from what I've read about him, I'm sure Johnny would understand. u.u lol, I hate the chime thing too (hence why it was in the story, heh) that and the 'You've got mail!' message. Veeeery irritating. F

**Lynx Ryder: **lol, you're not alone, kids creep me out too. Especially those psychic ones that seem so popular now. Evil, foreboding demon children XP They're not right. Neither are the TV kids with fake speech impediments. Somewhere, some insane, stupid person with a lot of money informed the world that it was cute for kids to talk with lisps in movies or on commercials. What were they _thinking_?? (shakes head to stop the rambling) _Any_way . . . Depp-references! There seem to be a lot more of them in this story than the last one. I'm thinking of fitting some quotes in there, too. I know there are a few that would go in perfectly. Wanna say thank you very much for liking my stories, reviewing, and putting me on your favorites lists! D I'm just shocked that so many people really like these things o.o;

_Oh, and this just in: Lynné's got her own Dead Journal now. 9.9 She wouldn't shut up, you see. She claims that Sands takes up all the space with his rants and tangents in the online journal reserved for my head-voices (see my bio if you're interested in that) and that she can't get a word in edgewise. So I knew that if I ever wanted quiet I'd have to give her what she wanted. She now has her own Dead Journal but won't let me post the link (grr) so if anybody wants it, ask and I'll ship it out in an e-mail._ _Sands tends to use it for his own purposes too, much to Lyn's chagrin. Her entries take place right at the beginning of this story, so it'll be following things pretty well. u.u_

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_o_


	15. An American Cowboy in Paris

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Fifteen: **An American Cowboy in Paris

Sands and Zeb are getting married. O.o In the RPG I'm in; should've been more specific. Really, I don't know how it happened, I mean . . . I _do_, but it was just so sudden. Ah, well. At least they'll be happy. This creates a problem, however, because (like I said earlier, like _way _earlier on) the Sands and Zebbidy in the RP are a lot further on in their relationship than the pair in this story. I'm somewhat confident that their sudden idea to get hitched won't interfere, but if it seems like I'm rushing things don't hesitate to tell me. You guys know how I am about keeping everyone in character. 9.6;

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* * *

**

Determination. That was all Zebbidy could use to describe the man who stood before her. The world around them was scorching and arid – so dry that Zebbidy couldn't breathe without coating her throat in dust. And yet there _he _was wearing black clothes that made his fair complexion even more prominent. Dark sunglasses hid most of his face but they did not mask the blood that was steadily trickling out from underneath them. Slowly, suppressing a moan of despair the entire time, Zebbidy closed her eyes.

_Oh my . . . not this . . . not this again . . ._

Before she could pinch herself as a feeble attempt to leave this horrible nightmare, two men entered from the door behind her. They stalked briskly towards Sands without even noticing the badly out of place woman who was standing in their way.

The men were dressed in suits that clashed horrible with the dramatic scene Zebbidy found herself standing in. However, she couldn't help but think that the slimy grins they wore and the guns they were each carrying fit everything all too perfectly. The pair of goons kept walking, inching ever closer to where the agent stood, but Sands remained rooted to the ground, determined not to run from a fight.

_Where could he run to? _Zebbidy wondered desperately, _It's not as though he can see where he's going . . ._

She narrowed her eyes as the two thugs smirked stupidly at each other and pointed with their guns at Sands.

_Those bastards . . . _she fumed silently. _He's got three holes in him, it's an obvious effort for him to stand let alone fight, and yet they're still going to shoot at him._

She wasn't surprised, though. She knew that these men were probably just doing whatever their boss had told them to do. They didn't look intelligent enough to have thought of killing a CIA agent on their own; they seemed more like the type who would work for a more powerful person and either do whatever orders they were given or be killed.

_Makes you wonder how people get into business like that . . ._

Shots suddenly ripped through the air as Sands began to fire. Bullets flew in every direction, hitting everything in sight (_So to speak,_ Zebbidy thought) except for their intended targets. Some even hit Zebbidy herself, though she paid them no mind. This was a dream and she knew it. The bullets had passed through her as easily as if she were made of air. And she probably was. After all, from the looks of things, no one could see her.

The hit men jeered at how foolish the American agent looked, but, as it turned out, the joke was on them. It was their laughter that gave them away. By following the sound, Sands now knew exactly where they were.

_Which is exactly what he wanted, _Zebbidy realized in awe as she marveled at just how clever Sands could be when he wasn't making immature jokes.

While the men were distracted, he took aim and sent two bullets straight into the head of the man on his left. The remaining was stunned, but only for a second. A quick recovery and he was ready. He raised his gun and fired twice.

Riveting pain seared through each of Zebbidy's legs. Her eyes widened as her hands immediately flew down to clutch one of the injured limbs. Her hands were not coated in blood as they should have been. Sands was a different case, blood gushed from the wounds in his legs. But he seemed not to feel any pain. The agent continued firing, shooting his attacker once in the foot and once again in the head.

All the while Zebbidy stood there, gripping her legs and taking in painful gasps as she watched Sands finally fall to the ground. His sunglasses slipped from his face, and fell clattering to the dusty earth beneath him.

**

* * *

**

"_Ahhh_!"

"What the hell!?"

"I . . . I . . . Oh . . . stupid coffee table! My _gods_ . . ."

"_What_? Are you lisping?"

"Wha – _no_! I just . . . how did I get . . . down here . . ." Zebbidy trailed off, rubbing her sore shins involuntarily. Her green eyes, which were vibrant and visible even in the darkness of the night, had expanded with fear and perplexity. She blinked up at Sands, her face livid with confusion and bewilderment.

"What . . . what happened . . . ?" she breathed, flustered.

"Exactly," Sands began calmly, "what I'd like to know." He paused, watching in amusement as Zebbidy tried in vain to control her haggard breathing. Deciding to egg her on, he grinned wryly and voiced the statement:

"I guess you _couldn't _keep your hands off me."

His smirk widened at the irked glare she threw him.

_'Nother score for me._

_**And here I thought you weren't at war with her.**_

****"So . . . what _are _you doing down here?" Sands asked, gazing down at Zebbidy as she hid her face in her hands and rubbed her eyes tiredly.

"I think I was sleepwalking," she murmured in a rush. Sands may have rolled his eyes at her response, but she didn't care at the moment. She was distracted in her study of the man and did not want her concentration to be broken by something he felt he had to say.

_After all,_ she thought reasonably, _he says enough most of the time. He can shut up for a few seconds while I figure that dream out._

What _had _that dream been about? Sands, obviously, and some gunfight he had been involved in.

_Or will be involved in. That's just it, I don't know if it's his past I'm seeing . . . or his future._

His past, she decided finally. It was his past she was Seeing. After all, Sands had made (_or thought of, _she couldn't help but wonder) that one comment many months ago.

'_I'm sure you'd feel differently if you knew about last years' Day of the Dead extravaganza, sugar-butt._'

When was that? May? The _beginning _of May when he had said (_Or thought_, the idea forced itself on her again) those words? Yes, it must have been because Zebbidy specifically remembered hearing them the day she had arrived in Paris. Those words would never leave her, no matter how many weeks, months, or years passed. They clung to her because of their mystery, because of the secretive aura that hovered around them that forced her to question what their true meaning was over and over again. Frequent eruptions in her brain spawned questions, but never answers.

_But what did he mean? _she found herself demanding pathetically once again. He must have been blind before she met him, if the visions she had been experiencing said anything. The unsure movements, the dark glasses, all of the blood . . .

_The Day of the Dead . . . _she murmured thoughtfully, _that's celebrated in countries like Spain and Mexico, isn't it? _And her dreams and visions always took place in the same location, and that location always looked like somewhere in the southern part of the world.

Meanwhile, Sands was doing a study of his own. For once Zebbidy had her hair down. Usually, she wore it up in a messy bun or in a tight braid that hung down her back. He had never cared for the braid much. Hated it, actually. It didn't to the woman justice at all. Then again, with the color of her hair, her braid looked as though it were restraining something. Almost as if it were encasing the burnt orange fire that was her hair. Maybe that's why she never let it down. It certainly looked like it would lash out and burn down entire villages if it were ever set free.

**_Wow. Where did _that _come from?_**

_I don't know . . ._ Sands answered truthfully.

**_Don't go getting all poetic on me, Sheldon, _**the voice warned, its tone dangerously low, **_I mean it._**

"Do we have any tea?" Zebbidy wanted to know as she twirled a lock of auburn hair around her finger. "I just . . . those goddamn dreams . . . I really need to clear my head."

"Yes," Sands answered, "but I don't know why you'd need to clear your head. You never remember your dreams, after all."

"That's true," Zebbidy replied without missing a beat, "but that doesn't mean I still don't have a lot on my mind. And, for me, drinking tea is a way of fixing that problem and perhaps even remembering my dreams."

"Is that so?" he inquired mockingly.

"Yes," Zebbidy said with a small nod and a tight-lipped smile. "Now, you said that we _do _have tea?" She didn't wait for an answer. "You know where to find me, then."

**

* * *

**

"So . . . what are you doing here?" Lynné asked into the darkness.

"Like I said, I heard you muttering," Liam answered, indicating that he was just as awake as she was.

"I must be doing that a lot, then," Lyn murmured thoughtfully. "This is the second time I've woken up to find you in my bedroom." She turned her head towards Liam. His blue eyes were just visible from the other side of Joséphine's soft curls. Even though the room was nearly pitch black, Lynné could see her partner blush.

"Oh, well . . ." Liam stumbled, "I was just . . . worried . . . that's all."

"Liam," she sighed, "what have I said about worrying for me?"

"Sorry," he mumbled, ashamed and embarrassed.

**_Oh, he such a liar, _**the voice hissed.

_And just what do you mean by that? _Lyn inquired skeptically.

**_Come _on_, Lynné! _**the voice practically yelled, **_It's obvious that he wants to jump your guns._**

****Lyn raised her eyebrows.

_Oh?_

**YES, **the voice stressed, fed up.

Lyn was enjoying the torture session while she could. She knew it wouldn't be long before the tables turned and _she _would be the one being tormented. Until that time came, she wanted to make sure she annoyed the voice as much as possible.

_So what do you propose I do? _she asked innocently.

**_Advance on him, _**the voice advised.

_Not in front of the children, _Lyn thought stubbornly, indicating Josey.

**_Why not? _**it whined, **_It's not like the kid can see what you'd be doing._**

_NO, _Lyn told it sternly.

**_Fine_**, the voice huffed, irritated, **_It doesn't matter, anyway. I'm sure a horn-dog like Liam will take it whenever it's available._**

_Liam? You sure you're not mixing him up with Sands?_

_**You sure **_**he_ hasn't been spending too much _time _with Sands?_**

****Lyn's eyes widened at this.

_Good point. Although I still don't think he wants to take me to bed and do the horizontal cha-cha._

_**I know **_**you _do._**

_I'm not answering that._

"What do you think happened to her parents?" Liam's sudden question broke through her train of thought.

"Hmm?" Lyn murmured carelessly.

"Joséphine," he explained. "She said that her uncle takes care of her. I imagine that means she doesn't have any parents?"

"They're dead," Lynné answered shortly.

"Huh?" was Liam's brilliant response. "How do you know?"

"The second time I ran into her," his partner began, "It was in a graveyard."

Liam knew better than to ask what Lynné was doing in a cemetery. It would only anger her and he didn't want that.

"And she said she was there visiting her parents," Lyn continued. "So, you can imagine . . ." She trailed off, waving a hand in a throwaway gesture, indicating that he could think whatever he liked.

"But . . ." Liam faltered, finding what he was about to ask uncomfortable.

"What?" Lyn sighed, bored.

"What _happened _to them?" he finally voiced, feeling extremely restless.

"Accident de voiture . . ." (Car crash . . .) Joséphine muttered drowsily, not opening her eyes.

"What?" Liam gasped. On the other side of the bed, Lynné sat up a little, not taking her eyes off of the little girl. Still appearing as though she was asleep, Joséphine sighed.

"C'était un accident de voiture," (It was a car crash,) she repeated.

"When?" Liam asked, staring at the girl with wide eyes.

(When I was three,) Joséphine answered dully.

**_Oooh, _**Lyn's voice winced. **_Bet that brings back a lotta memories._**

_Shut up, _she shot bitterly.

"But how did it happen?" Liam wanted to know. Now that he had seen that Josey acted careless in her answers, it wasn't _as _hard to ask about her past.

"Je ne sais pas," (I don't know,) the child said simply. "Je me souviens juste que j'ai presque volé de ma place quand la voiture devant nous s'est arrêtée. Notre voiture l'a heurté. (I just remember that I almost flew out of my seat when the car in front of us stopped. Our car ran into it.

"Il y avait un son grand, hurlant et ensuite tout est allé sombre," (There was a loud, screeching sound and then everything went dark,) she continued. "La chose suivante dont je me souviens se réveillait à un hôpital. Seulement je _ne savais pas_ que c'était un hôpital." (The next thing I remember was waking up in a hospital. Only I didn't _know _it was a hospital.)

"Why not?" Lyn put in.

"Il y avait un bandage sur mes yeux," (There was a bandage over my eyes,) explained Joséphine in a tired voice. "Alors les docteurs sont entrés . . ." (Then the doctors came in . . .) She paused to yawn. Her dark lashed fluttered momentarily and she continued. "Ils m'ont dit que ma mère et père étaient morts." (They told me that my mother and father had died.)

"I'm sorry," Liam murmured sincerely.

Joséphine waved a dainty hand.

"Ce n'est pas un problème," (It's not a problem,) she assured him, yawning once again. "Après cela, les docteurs m'ont dit que j'avais été aveuglé dans l'accident et qu'il n'y avait pas d'espoir de fixer mes yeux." (After that, the doctors told me I had been blinded in the accident and that there wasn't any hope of fixing my eyes.)

"Oh . . ." was all Liam could say.

**

* * *

**

"I'm not going with you," Lyn stated mechanically later that morning.

Sands closed his eyes, paused to rethink what his sister had told him, and opened them again.

"What?"

"I'm not going," she repeated.

"May I ask why?"

"You may."

"Well . . ." Sands began, gritting his teeth in annoyance, ". . . _why_?"

"Oh," Lynné sighed, "many reasons."

"Care to . . . name a few?" her brother prompted.

"Well, it would save us a lot of time if I didn't . . . but I will. First reason, there's no one to watch Josey."

"Je peux me surveiller!" (I can watch myself!) the child protested at once.

"Wrong," Sands corrected, ignoring Joséphine completely, "there's Zebbidy _and _Fusco if he chooses not to go."

"_Right_," Lyn informed him, "I don't trust Liam with a kid and Zebbidy has an idea – that is, _I _have an idea – of how we could end this whole mess. She likes it and agrees with me that it's the best option, so she wants to go with you and spring it on Cat."

"What?"

"Another reason," Lyn continued smoothly, "is because I didn't get enough sleep last night, what with my bedroom suddenly becoming a place of meeting," she added, with a glance at Josey.

"Moving on, Josey can't go around wearing your shirts all the time." She gestured to the girl who was indeed wearing one of Sands' quirky T-shirts. This one happened to be black with a white arrow pointing upward printed across the chest. Underneath this were written the words '**The Man.**' Below that the words '**The Legend**' could be seen, followed by a second arrow, this one pointing downward. Lyn gave her brother a critical look.

"I'm taking her shopping," she stated. "And, lastly . . . I just don't like Cat." She shrugged. "Understand?"

A thin smile pulled at Sands lips as he made his reply.

"Understood. Have fun."

**

* * *

**

Waiting was not something anyone ever cared for. Given that Catherine Johnson – known as 'Cat' to her friends and family -- was not just anyone, she, just like any other person, did not like having to wait. That brought up a thought in Catherine's mind: She wasn't just anyone. She was _someone_. She was CIA, she was the daughter (well, stepdaughter) of the governor of Colorado, she was engaged a senator's son who happened to be one of her fellow agents. Very impressive, and she could hardly call herself _anyone_, thank you very much. She was someone who did _not _deserve to be kept waiting.

So where was that obnoxious stepbrother of hers? He should know better than anyone else that she hated sitting around. Then again, knowing him, that's exactly why he was late. Ignorant bastard . . . She could be out shopping by now or touring the city – not sitting on her butt in some restaurant waiting around for her god-awful stepbrother to show his face.

The bell above the entrance door tinkled merrily as someone entered the restaurant.

"Finally," Catherine was about to mutter but as she looked up her jaw dropped.

**

* * *

**

"Stay here, Josey," Lynné instructed, leaving the little girl with some French cartoon show she'd turned on for her.

"Pourquoi?" (Why?)

"I need to have a word with Liam," Lyn replied, turning to exit the living room.

"Oh," Joséphine said bluntly. There was a pause, then –

"Est cela de moi?" (Is it about me?)

"No."

"Est cela de la nuit dernière?" (Is it about last night?)

"Possibly," Lyn answered after a moment.

From her position on the couch, Joséphine turned to smile at her.

"Cela signifie oui." (That means yes.)

"Uh-huh. Watch the idiot box, Josey. It'll teach you everything you need to know."

"Mais je n'aime pas ce spectacle," (But I don't like this show,) the girl remarked stubbornly.

"You have the remote," Lyn said, her voice growing more and more faint as she walked away. "Change it."

That was true. In her hands, Joséphine held the remote, though she wasn't sure why. It wasn't like she could see it to know what buttons to push. Maybe la mademoiselle had forgotten. She had been told she was excellent in disguising her handicap. But Mademoiselle Lynné didn't seem like the type to forget things like that. Maybe she simply had confidence in her abilities to do things on her own. If so, that was very bold of her.

**

* * *

**

"What . . . are you . . . _doing_?" Catherine hissed as Sands sat down at the table.

"Why, Catherine, what ever do you mean?" her stepbrother asked in mock-bewilderment.

"_What **are **you doing_?" she demanded in a screech of a whisper. Across the table, Sands looked around in confusion before finally setting his sights on his stepsister again.

"Sitting?" he tested, arching a brow. "Kitty, unless you're going to be more specific –"

"You know damn well what I mean," Cat fumed at him, narrowing her already squinted eyes in frustration. "What are you doing dressed . . . like _that_?"

"Oh, this?" Sands asked, gesturing to his ensemble. "I did it for you, Cat. I know how much you love Westerns."

Catherine shot eye-daggers at him, or rather, his outfit. Clad in worn jeans, a light yellow shirt with red trim, a large leather belt with an even larger buckle, and a cowboy hat and boots, Sands would not have looked out of place in a movie starring the Duke himself, John Wayne.

When he had first picked out his attire earlier that morning, Sands had smirked at himself in the bathroom mirror, thinking only one thing:

_At least now Lynnie can't say that France never did the Westerns justice._

"What's _she _doing here?" Catherine spat, interrupting his musings and nodding to Zebbidy. The woman, a Mary Tyler Moore-esque wig on her head, was taking a seat next to Sands, annoyed by the fact that he hadn't pulled the chair out for her and waited for her to sit before pulling up a chair himself.

_Well, _she thought, _I never said he was a gentleman. But most guys aren't these days. And if they are, there's a good chance they're gay. _Gods_, life's not fair._

"She's supposed to be in hiding. The Poisson Mafia is after her, and _you're_ letting her walk around in broad daylight – are you _that _insane!?" Cat's voice was low, but the fury that lingered within it could not be subdued.

"I'd like to take the time to point out that this was _her _idea, not mine," Sands defended, pointing a casual finger at Zebbidy. "She wanted to come." He paused, grinning at his stepsister. "And you know I can't say no to a lady."

"You've said no to many of the things _I've _asked," Catherine reminded him clipped tones. "Why am I any different?"

'_Cuz, honey, you ain't a lady,' _Sands could practically hear Lynné cackle.

"Oh, Cat," he sighed aloud, "you're my _stepsister_, practically family --"

**_You fuckin' liar._**

****"— you don't count," he finished with an annoying smile.

Catherine's eyes, if possible, grew into even smaller slits as her face contorted in suppressed rage.

"If you must know," Sands sighed, "Miss Samhain –"

"Sow-when," Zebbidy corrected flatly.

"— is here because she and my dear sister concocted a plan of action that I think you'll find very . . . agreeable."

Cat continued to fume, clearly uninterested in the ideas of anyone other than herself.

"Where's Lynné?" she said tersely.

"Working," Sands replied easily.

"Working," Cat echoed disbelievingly.

"Working," Zebbidy put in, with a nod and a smile.

"I don't believe you," Catherine told them. "Lynné never works."

"Au contraire," Sands retorted. "That girl never stops working. Y'know . . . I can't remember the last time she went on vacation."

Cat still wasn't taking the bait. Reaching into his jean's pocked, Sands shrugged.

"Call her up if you think I'm lying."

Grinning, he withdrew his hand and tossed her a cell phone. Pointing at it, Sands mouthed the words 'She's on speed dial' as Catherine glared at him. She punched in a few buttons, held the phone up to her ear, and, after a few seconds, she got a response.

**

* * *

**

Dipping one arm down over the bed, Lynné felt along the floor, trying to follow the sounds of her ringing cell phone without having to move too much. Her fingers brushed across the edge of something sleek and plastic. After a few more seconds of fumbling, she turned over onto her back, a tiny black phone at her ear.

"Hello . . .?" sighed a slightly breathless Lynné. She sounded as though she had just undergone a _very _thrilling and exhilarating experience. And enjoyed it. It was a very good feeling, one she hadn't felt for a long time. Nearly four years, in fact.

"Why aren't you here!?" an angry woman demanded into the tiny phone.

Lyn winced, holding her cellular away from her ear.

"Cat . . ." she acknowledged, her voice weak from lack of air. "Lynné Sands is busy right now . . . Fuck off."

"_Lynné_!" her stepsister all but shouted, vainly trying to get her attention before she hung up.

"I thought I gave Sands specific instructions: I'm not to be bothered while I'm working."

"You haven't answered my question, _Bea _–"

"I'm working, Cat, as I've already stated. Now, if you don't mind –"

"Yes, I _do _mi –"

"Well I don't. Ta."

Lyn abruptly ended their conversation there. It wasn't that she didn't _like _Cat – okay, yes it was. But she also had pressing . . . business . . . to tend to. Turning over on her side, she faced the person next to her.

"D'you think he knows?" her thoroughly disheveled partner asked as they both stared up at the ceiling.

"Who? Sands? Nah." Lynné laid a hand over her chest and was surprised to find that her heart was still beating violently. Closing her eyes, she continued, "Even if he _does _know, he won't care. . . . Unless you use me . . . or cheat on me . . . or rape me . . . or something along those lines. Then he'd have to kill you."

"After you got through with me, I'm guessing."

"Oh, of course," Lyn agreed wholly. "Rest assured, Fusco, that if ever you should take advantage of me, I will have no choice but to fuck . . . and kill you. And not necessarily in that order . . . Savvy?"

**

* * *

**

Cat snapped her phone shut irritably after hearing the distinct sound of being hung up on. She sat there, stewing in her own irritation and fury for a moment before turning her frosty gaze on her table's two other occupants. Her cold black eyes honed in on Sands for a moment, but finally came to rest on Zebbidy. Shoving the cell phone across the polished wooden table, she sneered distastefully:

"You said something about a plan?"

**

* * *

**

_Wow. That's certainly . . . a lot of . . . progress . . . for one chapter. Like I said earlier, I hope I'm not rushing things but It had to happen sometime. And for those of you who think they know what 'It' is, you're probably right._

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**Dawnie-7: **I'm definitely leaning towards Josey staying with Lyn. Sorta like a way to make up for the fact that the kid who helped Sands out in Mexico didn't make much of an appearance in my previous fic. It was only later that I found out I probably could've given him a bigger part. 6.6; And that was a typo, btw. The scream wasn't from upstairs, it was from the living room where Sands was sleeping. Sorry I didn't catch it 'til after I'd posted, but it's fixed now. O.o; That chapter had so much to edit it wasn't even funny . . .

**Lynx Ryder: **Hmm . . . I dunno, Josey just might have a death wish. Then again, she can't exactly see Lyn's face whenever she's mad, so that probably helps. And I did have fun at the nature park, if you call being overwhelmed by foliage and waterfalls fun, which I do, lol.

**vanillafluffy: **Oh my God! I seriously thought of adding, "He thinks he's Keith Richards," to that line, but I liked it the way it was. o.o Wow. How 'bout it. And I've now got this image of Sands asleep and wearing a red bandana and smoking an imaginary cigarette all the while talking in a slightly slurred British accent. (shakes head) I gotta fit that in somewhere . . .

**DragonHunter200: **XD Like I said, I've gotta fit a scene with Sands having a 'Stones dream in this somewhere. And, flashbacks! Yes! I actually had that one written (but not finished) a while ago but I didn't have any place to put it, so it just sorta remained unused for a while. Then I decided to throw Cat the Evil in there by making her a CIA agent and that kinda left an opening for a childhood flashback. ) Glad ya liked it!

**fanfiction fanatic: **I'm not much of an action writer but I'm trying! ) I _do _have a few action-y scenes planned out for future chapters, though. Thanks for wishing me luck!

o


	16. A Plan of Action

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Sixteen: **A Plan of Action

Oh, my. I'm only on the sixteenth chapter and already I've received more reviews than I did on my first OUaTiM story. D Thank you!!! You guys rock! Oh, and one more thing before I forget like I usually do. The title of that last chapter was a (hopefully blatant) rip off from a movie called 'An American Werewolf in Paris.' Not my favorite movie of all time but my sister found it rather interesting, so I decided to warp the title a bit.

**

* * *

**

The aged denim fabric felt soft as Lynné slipped the dark blue jeans over her legs. After they had been hiked up over her hips, she made to button them but paused when she caught sight of her reflection -- or, more specifically, Liam's -- in the full-length mirror. Her partner (oh, she could take those words so many ways now) was nearly tripping over himself the way he was running around trying to find his discarded clothes, clearly frazzled. The concept of someone barging in on them got, as Sands would say, his panties in a bunch. He had never even flirted with the idea of wearing lingerie, but someone seeing him in nothing but his blue-checked boxers and knowing that he and Lynné had _not_ been holding a discussion on the meaning of life was something he could do without.

It was really quite amusing, Lyn reflected, untwisting her bra strap and glancing at Liam. She felt her breath escape her again as she observed him, but that was probably just an after effect.

_Oh God . . . _Lyn sighed with ecstasy. It felt as though a huge, dead weight had been lifted off of her shoulders, her head, her feet . . . Everything felt incredibly relaxed and at peace now that she'd gotten that off her chest.

**_Fucked him, you mean. Did the nasty, bumped uglies, had _sex**

_Personally, _I _prefer the term 'horizontal cha-cha,' but whatever._

"So, um, is that it?" Liam glanced nervously her way, almost as if he was frightened that she would lash out and bite him.

_I thought I told him I wasn't into kinky stuff?_

"That's it," she said out loud, pulling on a light blue shirt with a picture of an alien with pale green skin and large red eyes on it. "Unless you'd like another helping."

She turned to Liam, winked, and, judging by the look on her partner's face, thought he was going to feint again.

**_And this is the man you chose to bag? Oh, Lynnie . . . _**the voice tsked disappointedly.

_See, this is what I hate about you_, Lyn began in disgust. _You tell me to do things, and yet on those rare occasions when I decide to go along with you, you change your mind suddenly and rag on me for doing it. Same way with your opinions. The moment _I _agree, you turn around and say the exact opposite, even though ten seconds ago you were saying exactly what I was saying. You make no fucking sense._

_**Darling, we've been over this, but apparently you need to be reminded again: I'm the fucking **_**voice _in your _head.**

After exhaling a harsh breath, Lynné turned her attention back to Liam, who was frantically scrambling to find his shirt. So far he was having no success. Glancing around with bored eyes, Lyn spotted the piece of clothing peeking out from underneath her bed, though she made no effort to tell Liam this.

"What's your idea again?" he asked suddenly, making a mad grab for his shirt having spotted it at last.

"Plan of action, Liam. Not an idea," Lynné corrected as she ran a brush through her dark hair. "Idea's are just like theories, meaning you don't really have a _clue_, you just know your possibilities. _Plans_, on the other hand, are a different story. A plan is a design, carefully thought up – like an idea, admittedly. But there's also arrangement involved – _careful _arrangement. And that means risks are taken.

"That's the main difference between ideas and plans, Liam. There are risks when dealing with plans; ideas virtually don't have any because . . . that's just what they are: Ideas."

"Plan, okay, got it," Liam said, nodding in understanding. "What's your _plan_?"

Sliding one foot into a high, clunky-heeled sandal, Lynné began without looking up at him.

"We give Poisson what he wants."

Liam's reaction was predictable. His eyes bugged, he stopped dead in his tracks, and gaped at her.

"We're giving them Zebbidy? Lynné – are you . . . y'know, all those times you were talking about your stash I thought you were joking, but –"

"I _was_, Liam," she sighed impatiently, "So don't you worry. My head is perfectly fine."

_Yeah right._

"What we're going to do," Lyn said as she sat down on the edge of the bed, "is stick with our original plan. We're going to let Poisson's schleps kidnap Zebbidy. We'll send her out with a wire and a camera, let them nab her, and voila. Instant inside access to one of Poisson's many hideouts."

She smiled calmly. Her plan was foolproof. Admittedly, there were a little glitches here and there, and the risk of somebody getting killed _was _high, but, most likely, only nameless faces would die (and hopefully Cat, but she always wished for _her _death). Also, Damiano was getting antsy again. Well, it _was _late September after all, almost two months since they had first hired him and all he knew was that he was supposed to kill Alphonse and Vincent Poisson, the head cheese himself, and anybody that got in his way. But, if betrayal was the case, they could always kill him. There wasn't a problem with that. There weren't any problems at all.

**_Not yet_, **the voice warned, **_Don't let your guard down for a second. Remember what happened the last time._**

_I won't, and I do._

"But Piosson's out to kill Zebbidy, isn't he?" Liam asked.

"That's what we thought," Lyn told him, "but this morning I received a phone call . . ."

She paused and Liam raised his eyebrows questioningly.

". . . from the lovely David Moreau."

"Poisson's friend . . ." Liam remembered.

"Yeah," Lynné said, grinning. "He tells me that it was a mistake, that those men weren't supposed to have killed Zebbidy, simply –"

"Kidnap her," he finished. Lyn nodded, still smiling.

"And he also informed me that ol' Eddy Poisson is throwing a shindig."

"When?" Liam asked.

"Moreau isn't sure, but whenever it is, it would be the prime opportunity to end this thing."

"Right," Liam murmured, bobbing his head slowly. "And you're thinking that if we get Zebbidy in there, she'll be able to give us the 411?"

Lyn laughed slightly at his use of term.

"411? Gosh, that hasn't used in about five years . . ."

"And the word 'gosh' hasn't been used since my parents were kids," Liam countered.

Lynné stared at him, a little surprised at his retort.

**_That guy's been hanging around you far too long._**

_Uh-huh._

"Touché, Liam," Lyn complimented, giving him a little mock applause. She dropped her hands to her sides abruptly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I told the kid I'd take her shopping."

**

* * *

**

"How was it, Kitty?"

"Irritating and nerve grating, as usual." Catherine smiled maliciously at the man across the table. "Don't call me Kitty, darling. It doesn't sound professional."

Across the table, a forced grin found its way across Agent Richard Harrington's somewhat-hansom face. He didn't like being told what to do, although he had abided rules all of his life. Catherine Johnson was his _fiancée_, his soon-to-be wife! He shouldn't be taking orders from her. And yet he did because . . . why?

_Love? _

Cat took a sip of her bitter coffee to hide the scowl that crossed her face, detesting how hopeful and pathetic the thought sounded the entire time. Of course it wasn't love. Fiancée or not, he didn't love her. He loved his job, he loved his gun, he loved his stupid Rolex watch, but did he love her? Not likely.

_Money?_

That certainly sounded plausible, and she had the big bucks to make it true. The CIA paid her well, plus stepdaddy was loaded, as was her mother. She was entitled to a hefty sum of money once those two kicked the bucket. After they had died, she would be set for life, as would anyone she married and their children if they chose to have them. But Richard – Rich -- had always had money. Why should he need hers?

'_The thing about the rich is,_' she could hear her hated, shunned, insane little stepsister's soft, smooth voice so clearly that she raked her nails into the sides of her chair to control herself.

'_The thing about the rich is,_' Lynné began again, '_they're always willing to become richer._'

She hated that woman, she always would. The way she could con a person into doing whatever she wanted.

_Which is almost always sex, _she always liked to think, even though she knew it was hardly ever true.

The way Lynné was gorgeous whereas she was rather plain. In her eyes, her stepsister always dressed like a floozy, yet in reality Lyn didn't care to show off her body as much as she could. It wasn't that she was modest, Cat knew that Lynné knew she was attractive, and so she told herself that Lyn didn't dress like a slut because she was a flirt. She liked to keep men in suspense until the proper moment came. _That's _why she did it, she assured herself. Lynné was a sick, twisted slut who was too clever for her own good, and Catherine hated her for that.

When she was six, her mother began seeing a man named Robert. 'Rob,' he had insisted on being called. Cat supposed it made him sound friendlier, more approachable. Too bad it was all phony. One day, months after her mother had started dating, 'Rob' introduced them to his family: Two children, one she was instantly taken by, Sheldon, and the other one. The girl. She had hated her at once.

'Bonjour,' Catherine had said to her mother's boyfriend, wanting to impress everyone in the vicinity. She was six and she knew French; how clever was that? In actuality, she had heard the strange word on a TV show and had figured out what it meant, but nobody needed to know that.

'Bonjour,' she said once she had reached Lynné, the stupid four-year-old who hadn't even started real school yet. In her mind, Cat had snorted arrogantly at the little girl's lack of words. She was still fathoming what she had just said, probably. Either that, or she couldn't even speak yet.

Suddenly, a small grin – more of a smirk really; was that mockery!? – inched across the impish little girl's face.

'Salut,' she had greeted conversationally. 'Je m'appelle Lynné. Comment allez-vous ?'

Cat could only stare. She had no idea what the girl had said. Later she had found out it was French and that Lynné knew many phrases in the language. Her mother had been of French decent and had spent half her life in the country. Lyn had misjudged Catherine's greeting; she had thought that her soon-to-be stepsister _could _speak French and she was only returning the greeting with a few words of her own.

_Liar, _Cat thought even now after so many years had passed. _You wanted to humiliate me. You knew I was just showing off and you wanted to strike me dumb. You knew I couldn't speak the language and you knew it. You knew._

"Catherine? Kitty?"

Rich's voice comes from far away at first, but at last she realizes that he's sitting right across from her and that she's zoned out once again.

"Are you okay?" her not-unattractive fiancé asked, his eyes large with concern she knew was false.

_Bet it wouldn't be false if he were looking at Her._

"Fine," Cat replied faintly, staring over his shoulder and out the window he was sitting directly in front of. Outside, on the other side of the street, she could make out a woman with dark hair leading a small, blonde little girl into an expensive clothing store for children. She kept her ink colored eyes on the pair until they had entered the store. Only when they had disappeared did Catherine say anything more.

"I'm fine. Just don't call me Kitty."

**

* * *

**

"You're sure you wanna do this? Once you go in, there's no going back 'til everyone of Poisson's men are dead."

"I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing," Zebbidy told him, "but I don't wanna be sitting around that house anymore. I feel like I'm getting claustrophobic," she added jokingly.

"The feeling's mutual, Zeb," Sands confided, steering the car down a corner.

The car was kept quiet with a strangely comfortable feeling for several minutes, but it was quickly shattered when Zebbidy spoke up.

"I wanted to ask you," she began, keeping her eyes forward, "why a cowboy?" She turned to face him with a slightly apologetic expression. "I mean, I love the concept, but where'd it come from?"

With a small smile, Sands said, "I already explained: I did it for Cat. She loves Westerns."

"Hmm . . . . then why do I get the idea that, even if she _did _love cowboy movies, she would still disapprove of your attire?"

"All right," Sands confessed lightly, holding up a hand, "you caught me. I don't know if Cat likes Westerns or not."

"I'd say not, judging by her character," Zebbidy mused thoughtfully, "Then again, I never thought I see _you _in a cowboy get-up, so now I'm ready to believe several things."

"Example?" Sands offered, stealing a glance at her. She looked relaxed, comfortable, at ease. This was a new concept for him. Most of the women who had ridden in any of his cars were either beaming with over-enthusiastic glee because they were about to get laid, or hyperventilating with breathless fear because they were about to be killed. In fact, now that he thought about it, the only women who had ever been remotely calm while riding in a vehicle with him were Lyn – and that's because she was his sister; sex and murder were out of the question when it came to her – and one other.

_Ajedrez, _he realized, tightening his grip on the steering wheel as the memory of the woman rose in his mind. _Boy, that explains a lot now._

He waited for the voice to make some snide remark, but for once, much to Sands relief, it was silent. He was grateful for this even though he knew that after it had emerged from hibernation the voice would haunt him once again. It would plague him with it's comments about his past, present, and future, which would mean yet another sleepless night for him. _Damn it._

"Like finding out that the CIA really _didn't _kill Marilyn Monroe," Zebbidy said, answering the question he had nearly forgotten

"Oh, rest assured, honey bunch, Marilyn's death was completely accidental." He shrugged nonchalantly. "If the combination of drugs she took _happened _to be fatal, then that was her fault. It's not like we gave 'em to her."

Zebbidy raised her eyebrows.

"We gave them to an associate and then _he _gave them to her," Sands finished, turning to flash a smirk in Zebbidy's direction. She smiled back at him.

"What about Area 51?" she inquired coyly.

"Well, the Federal Bureau of Intoxication's in charge of that one," Sands explained, "But I've always thought that it was all one big hoax. There really isn't anything there. It's a _fake _army base set up to divert the public's attention away from the real thing."

Zebbidy nodded, considering this.

"That's good," she complimented him. "No one would ever imagine that, but if you think about it, it's just what the government would do."

"That's just my opinion," Sands said, shrugging carelessly, "but –"

"It makes sense," Zebbidy finished. "What about cloning though? They have to have cloned a human being somewhere."

"And not just in America," Sands added.

Her nose twitched.

"Probably. And there are probably some nasty side-effects, so they're keeping whatever resulted in the cloning under lock and key."

"That would be the governmental thing to do," Sands said, grinning.

"I'm not really big on the whole idea, to tell you the truth," Zebbidy admitted. "There are enough people in the world as it is."

"I read somewhere," Sands began, "that if you were to take the entire population of China, I think it is, and have them all stand in a single-file line, that the line would never end because of the number of people being born in that country."

"They're including deaths, too, I imagine," Zebbidy questioned. "Like for every death there is new life. Something like that."

"Sounds spiritual," he said.

"Oh," Zebbidy sighed, pretending to be disappointed. "I was going for 'poetic' but spiritual's fine."

"Doesn't it strike you as odd," she said after a moment, "that the government is so bent on keeping things under raps, and yet one of their agents is dressing up like a cowboy and saying that his agency _does _do all of these things –"

"Well, not all the time," Sands interrupted, wanting to clear things up. "The FIB's involved with cloning and it's the military's job to keep the aliens in check."

Not to his surprise, Zebbidy quirked an eyebrow.

"Aliens?"

Sands merely smiled and shrugged. Spinning the steering wheel in his hands, he turned the vehicle into a driveway, the gravel crunching as the tires rolled over it. The car slowed to a stop just outside the door of the rustic garage. Looking inside the living room windows, Zebbidy could see a small square of bright, flashing lights.

_The TV must be on._

An odd grating sound drew her attention away from the window, but not for long. It was only Sands putting the car in park. Seconds later, a small click indicated that he had unbuckled his seatbelt. Zebbidy didn't move; Sands did. She felt his eyes on her. He wasn't getting out of the car. Okay . . .

Finally fed up, she acknowledge him, not with words, but she did face him. Her expression was clear: '_What?_'

Sands, getting a kick out of seeing her annoyed, grinned.

"We're here."

* * *

__

_Meh, that wasn't a very good chapter, was it? Well I had to get the plan out or else there would be confusion, and then Cat's little tangent sorta came out of nowhere. Then Sands and Zebbidy needed something to talk about – once again we get on the discussion of Marilyn Monroe; how does she keep sneaking in here??? – and the rest were just a combination of theories my friends and I have had about the government. (shrugs) I just thought the idea of a government agent saying things against the agency he's working for would be funny._

_Oh, quick note. I need help! Really, I know where I'm going with this story, I just need something until the night before Zebbidy gets kidnapped by the Poissons. After that, I know what I'm doing and what's going to happen, the next chapter's just a little hazy for me. Blah, XP So if anyone has any ideas, ship 'em my way, thank you!!!_

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**fanfiction fanatic: **Well, I'm trying to update as fast and as much as I can. Probably every Friday and Monday there'll be a new chapter and usually I'll post around nine or ten at night. Thanks once again for reviewing. )

**Dawnie-7: **(shrug) Lyn had to give him a warning, y'know how she is, lol. And Cowboy Sands, what can I say, that's probably my favorite part in the movie. I just wonder if Robert Rodriguez thought of that or if it was something from Johnny Depp's own imagination. Either way, I love it. u.u

**morph:** FFN's been weird for me too, lately. Whenever I go to review something half the time, it'll either say I already reviewed or that I'm not logged in (even after I have logged in 9.9). Either way, it won't let me review. -.e lol, and Zeb _will _find out. It'll take time, but she will find out. u.u

**Lynx Ryder:** Good to hear Josey's starting to ease off on the creepy-ness now. From what I've noticed, most kids are rather curious, especially when they're as young as Josey, so I think that's why I think I have her asking so many questions. Plus, she's very intuitive cuz I'm trying to make her like a mini Sands or Lynné without being exactly like them, ie, she's Lyn or Sands minus the evil, lol.

Joséphine: Elle a raison! Je ne suis pas méchant! (She's right! I'm not evil!)

Lynné: -.e;

**DragonHunter200:** I know, I know, the Rolling Stones thing has got to be in there. The image won't get out of my head. 9.6;;; Not that it's a bad image, mind you. u.u I think I know an upcoming chapter where it'll fit in veeery well. And, yes, Liam needed some action. Definitely. Though not as much as Lynné, I think, judging by what recent entries in her Dead Journal say.

Sands: (mock-scolding Lyn) You perverted bitch – that's not what that journal's for.

Lynné: I can't help it if I'm not easy like you. u.u

Sands: (raising an eyebrow) 'Easy?' I'm not _easy_.

Lynné: (evil smirk) Yeah, tell that to those hookers I saw leaving earlier.

Sands: Those weren't mine. u.u They were Fusco's.

Liam: (this guy has reeeally bad timing) Huh? O.o?

o


	17. True Virtues

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Seventeen: **True Virtues

Why do I always forget to do this? (sigh) Oh well. Okay, okay . . . There's another hidden reference that needs to be mentioned. Lyn's shirt in the last chapter: Alien, green skin, red eyes. Anybody know? Probably not since the show wasn't very popular and was canceled after only like three seasons. Anyway, it's Invader Zim, in case nobody caught it. (shrug) Love that show, that's all I have to say. ) On with the story . . .

**

* * *

**

"Moreau? Yeah, it's me. Listen, have you found out when he's having this thing?"

"Patients, mademoiselle," the man's answer came from the other end of the phone. "They say it is a virtue."

"They also say that – not _now_, Josey – that when things get tough, the tough get going. But your not going, Moreau. Not at all. And _that's _a problem for me, one that I can't deal with for much longer."

"Mademoiselle," Joséphine began, tugging on Lynné's skirt.

"Unless you think we're in danger, don't interrupt me, kid," Lyn warned her. "So what do you think?"

"Il n'y a aucun danger . . ." (There is no danger . . .) the girl answered, sounding slightly put off.

"Good," Lynné replied curtly, and she started to turn back to her phone conversation.

**_Is this your way of making sure you don't grow attached to her?_**

_No,_ she replied briskly, _this is just me being myself. I _am _a bitch, remember?_

_**Now I thought you were just strong-willed and independent?**_

_That too. Now, fuck off._

"If you must know –" Moreau was starting, but Lyn cut in.

"Oh, no. _I _don't need to know. It's the agency; _they're _the ones who're bent on doing this dance. However, they need a few more lessons before the big number, so if you'd be kind enough to provide . . ."

"Very well . . ." Even though he was all the way in the south of France, Lyn could practically sense Moreau rolling his eyes in exasperation. "Your man is thinking of having it sometime in October."

"When in October? Beginning, end, when?"

"End, most likely. For Halloween."

"But you're not sure?" Lyn pressed.

"Not entirely. There's still a week until October begins," Moreau reminded her. "I imagine her'll decide on the date some time soon."

"This party . . ." Lyn began slowly, thinking things over, "would it be one where you'll need an invitation?"

"Of course," he answered. "He is strictly set on the 'No invite, no entry' rule."

"And I imagine _you'll _be getting one?" Lyn questioned.

"It wouldn't make sense if I didn't," Moreau answered crisply.

"Think you could get me one?" she asked, and he knew she was grinning. "Possibly three?"

_You are asking too much, mademoiselle_, Moreau thought to himself in a tone that suggested that his patients were being tried.

Out loud he said, "I will see what I can do, mademoiselle, but I am not making any promises."

This was a lie. Moreau knew he would get her everything she wanted, because Lynné Sands was not someone you fucked around with. He had learned that the hard way.

**

* * *

**

David Moreau strolled down the dusty, deserted streets of Cullican, his head high and his hands in his pockets. He had to make sure none of those thieving children he'd heard about got a hold of his wallet, though it hardly seemed necessary now. By the looks of things, everyone in the town seemed to have vanished. He wasn't complaining. He didn't' like Mexico, therefore he didn't like Mexicans – the only reason he was here was because a friend of his, Andréez Martinez, invited him there to make a proposition. Apparently he wanted to go into the hotel business, but first he would need a little more cash in order to get things started.

As he made his way around the abandoned street, Moreau grew more and more uneasy. The rest of the town was noisy and full of life. Why should this street be any different? David Moreau was no coward, but the thought of turning around and heading back to his hotel suddenly seemed very tempting. Just as he was about to do just that, there was a noise coming from one of the stoops. But . . . that didn't make any sense; the entire street was empty and that included the stoops. Nonetheless, Moreau heard the noise again.

"Christ, will you be quiet? I fucked up, all right? I don't need you bantering me about it . . ."

The words were nothing short of unintelligible, but Moreau was certain that he had heard correctly. Unwillingly, he began walking toward the sound. It was undoubtedly the voice of a woman, young and, by the tone of it, tired and in a lot of pain.

"Son of a bitch schmuck . . ." she muttered again.

Just as he was about to reach the stoop, a large, floppy had peaked. Moreau's eyes widened as he saw dark hair, a face masked by sunglasses follow the hat. After this quickly came a black spaghetti-strap top, and a white skirt with a delicate scattering of black flowers printed on it. The woman was thin but not plain in the least, and Moreau was certain that, if they were not hidden by the solid stone banister and the knee-length skirt, her legs would have been just as beautiful.

_J'étais toujours un pour les jambes_, (I always have been one for legs,) he thought, unable to stop himself from smiling as he took in the fragile-looking creature in front of him.

"Bonjour, mademoiselle," he greeted warmly.

He expected a smile, a wave, for the girl to at least _look _at him, but the young woman did none of these things. Instead, she gasped, tried to reach for something Moreau couldn't see, and wound up toppling off of the step she stood on. In her zealous arm movements, she was thrown forward and landed, arms splayed out in weird angles, on the dirty sidewalk.

"Or should I say 'hola?'" Moreau tried again as he rushed to the woman's aid.

"You shouldn't say anything and piss off," the woman growled, struggling to stand before he could reach her.

"Mademoiselle, are you all right?" he asked, ignoring her protests.

"I'm _fine_," she spat. "Now, goodbye. Have a nice day."

"Here, let me give you a ride –"

"You're not giving me anything, buddy," she warned.

"Could I at least call you a . . . . cab . . ." Moreau trailed off and simply stared for several seconds before finally saying: "You . . . you don't have any legs."

"Correction," she hissed through clenched teeth, "I only have _one _leg."

Moreau's eyes went wide.

"What happened?"

"Nothing important," the woman informed him.

"You're missing a leg," he insisted, outraged, "that is _not _unimportant, ma chère."

"Well, it is to me," she assured him. "I've grown rather used to it, in fact."

But David Moreau had made up his mind. He was going to take this wiry femme with him whether she wanted to go or not. Ignoring the girl's complaints and her constant reassurances that she was fine, Moreau bent down and began to lift the fallen woman.

"Ah, _shit_! **_Don't_**!" she hissed through her teeth.

That's when he realized that not only was she bleeding from her severed limb, but also from her abdomen as well.

"Mon Dieu . . ." he breathed, staring in awe at the woman's gory body.

"Yeah," the woman agreed grimly. "Guess this means no kids for me, huh?"

"Do you want me to help you up?"

"That'd be nice," she replied dryly, "As long as your careful, Tex. I'm a delicate little flower from what everyone tells me."

Moreau arched a heavy eyebrow at this but said nothing. He took the woman by her shoulders and gingerly eased her up into a sitting position. He leaned her back up against the rough steps of the house she had fallen in front of, but afterward he took a step back. For some reason the woman gave of a vibe that he didn't like. It was almost as if she was hiding something, but Moreau didn't press it. Instead he decided to settle for asking a few general questions.

"What's your name?" he began guardedly.

She turned her head to him and smirked through all her pain. If she hadn't been wearing those garishly large glasses, Moreau got the distinct impression that her eyes would be laughing at him.

"Bunny," she said, with a coy note in her soft voice. "Bunny Luvsit."

"Ce n'est pas son nom réel," (That's not her real name,) he thought, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. Moreau only knew of three types of people who gave false names like that: People who worked for a government agency, people who were members of a cartel or a Mafia, and people who had something to hide. But he knew better than to ask in case she was with the government or Mafia, and if she had some sort of secret, then he would let her keep it.

"How old are you?" he decided to ask.

"Thirty-eight," 'Bunny' answered, tipping her head back and resting it against the stone.

"You do not look that old, mademoiselle," Moreau pointed out.

"Beautox does wonders," she replied.

"May I ask how – "

"No."

"You do not even know what I was going to say."

"While I don't pretend to be a psychic, I _do _happen to be highly intuitive." That ironic smile was back on her face again when she said, "You wanted to know if it was all right to ask how I got this way. So I took the liberty of saving us a lot of time and interrupted you."

"Should I thank you for that?" Moreau pondered, eyeing 'Bunny' expectantly.

She shrugged, wincing at how much it hurt to do such a simple movement.

"You could," 'Bunny' murmured, trying to sound at ease, "though it would save time if you refrained from it."

"Listen," she said, gasping in pain now, "you don't happen to have a cell phone on you, do ya? Mine chose the wrong time to die out on me."

"Of – of course," Moreau stammered, his fingers slipping as he hurried to find his phone. He knew he had taken it with him. He distinctly remembered putting it in one of his pockets. But which one was it . . . ?

The woman named 'Bunny Luvsit' threw him another sardonic smile when he finally handed her his phone.

"Merci."

**

* * *

**

"Yes, _yes_, we're going in. Just give me a second, Christ . . ."

"May I ask who is with you, mademoiselle?" Moreau now asked. "I know you are talking to someone else."

"Gee, Moreau, how _do _you do it?" Lynné's wit was as sharp and sarcastic as the day he'd met her. "Have you been delving into the occult behind my back? I hope you know what you're getting into."

"I assure you that I _do_, mademoiselle," he said stiffly.

"Yeah," Lyn snorted, "that's what you said when you met _me_."

"It sounded like a child," Moreau said, cutting to the chase. "You didn't –"

"While I may not be psychic like you, I do happen to have very good hunches. And _my _hunch is that _your _hunch is wrong. You know I can't do that."

"You adopted?" he gaped, trying not to sound as astounded as he felt.

"Christ, no," Lynné spat, "It's one of the little street Arabs you see wandering around here –"

"Je ne suis pas un Arabe de la rue!" (I am not a street Arab!) Joséphine fumed, putting her hands on her hips and glaring up at Lyn defiantly. The agent ignored her.

"She keeps asking me for a hand-out," Lynné said to her contact. "I told her to get lost but she's not going for it. Go, go!" she said suddenly, pretending to be sending an imaginary child off, "Get lost! Scram! _Shoo_!"

"Mademoiselle!" the girl huffed, disgruntled.

Lynné made a sharp sound that Moreau did not understand, but Joséphine did. It was the same sound her uncle used when he was warning her to keep quiet. The American woman could not have known this; she just didn't want anyone finding out about her, even people on their side, but she still got her point across. Obediently, Joséphine kept her mouth shut.

**

* * *

**

The sound of a doorknob being turned snagged Liam's attention. Years of stored up paranoia caused him to turn his head so fast he heard his neck crack. It would be sore tomorrow, but for now he brushed it aside. Reaching for the small handgun at his side, he waited for someone to enter.

The doorknob twisted again and Liam felt his eyes widen in anticipation. Whoever it was had a key from the sound of it.

_God, why do they always build up the suspense like this?_ he wondered miserably.

Suddenly, the door opened, but it was with ease. Not what he had been expecting.

_It can't be anyone dangerous,_ he told himself frantically, _They would've thrown the door open if they were dangerous . . ._

'They' turned out to be Zebbidy. When she saw Liam, she gave him a friendly smile and started to enter the house. Feeling the terrible weight of fear slink away, Liam released his hold on his gun. But his relief was short-lived as Sands quickly followed Zebbidy through the door. At once, Liam's nerves began to go wild and he had leapt to his feet.

Glancing around, Sands' eyes fell on Liam. He didn't look happy, but then again, Liam couldn't remember the last time he had seen genuine cheer on the man's face.

"Where's Lyn?" Sands inquired. His careless tone had no effect on Liam's nerves.

"Oh, she, uh . . . she took Joséphine clothes shopping," he answered, slipping the gun back in it's holster.

"Uh-huh," the other agent murmured, intrigued.

"You didn't go with her?" Zebbidy spoke up suddenly.

"Um, we – we always wanted someone at the house, right?" Liam stammered, his blue eyes darting from Zebbidy, who only stared, to Sands, who had taken a seat on the couch.

"Well," Liam began, grinning nervously, "I, um . . . will be . . . upstairs. Heh, bye!"

With that, he made a frantic dash out of the room, nearly knocking Zebbidy over as he hurried toward the stairs. The woman had to plaster herself against the wall in order to avoid a collision. She watched him almost trip as he flew up the steps. Shaking her head once the agent had disappeared from view, Zebbidy found herself fighting a laugh and loosing.

"What _is _he always so worried about?" she asked Sands through her giggles.

"Probably some traumatic childhood experience," he replied with a small, tired sigh in his voice. "Like he interrupted his parents at an, ahem, inappropriate time."

"I was gonna say he found a decaying corpse in the ally behind his house," Zebbidy said with a wan smile, "but yours seems more likely."

**

* * *

**

Alphonse Poisson had not wanted anything to do with the operation.

Correction, he probably would have, but when Sands met the man in the Moulin Rouge all the way back in the middle of July he knew that they would not have been able to trust Alphonse Poisson. The moment the man had said hello (or rather, 'bonjour') Sands had known he wasn't the right person for the job. Alphonse's voice was nervous, anxious, and just a little bit whiney. Sands had been right in thinking that he would be an easy man to manipulate, but this guy could be used by anybody.

Al was the kind of person who, when tested enough, would fly off at somebody and spill everything he knew. He was a twitching nervous wreck who couldn't stand up to anybody. Put a gun to his head, and a person could kiss their secrets goodbye.

So Sands had merely talked with the man. Not for long, but just enough to get some rather interesting information out of him. At first he thought it would be a boring evening if he had to talk to _that _whiney little dipshit, but he stood corrected.

Alphonse may not have been a good candidate, but his older brother Vincent was another story. Apparently, the man wanted to leave the family.

_Which means he wants out of the Mafia._

He wanted to leave and open up a gallery of classical paintings and sculptures.

_He wants to start his own league that steals and sells valuable artwork._

Al knew this; big daddy Édouard didn't. And, Alphonse had confided, it would serve them all well if they kept things that way. Sands figured that the man must have been a little drunk at the time, otherwise, he never would have opened up and told him any of this. Get a few more drinks in the mobster, and he would tell him nearly everything he needed to know.

_Wine's a helluva drink when you know how to use it properly_, Sands had thought with a wry grin.

He had stowed the information away in his mental inventory along with everything else that would come in handy somewhere down the road of life. Some of the facts he used, some he didn't, but he never threw any of them away. One never knew when knowing how to tie a cherry stem with your tongue or the six different ways to kill someone with a fork would come in handy. In this case, the knowledge that Vincent Poisson wanted out of the Mafia business would be _very _handy indeed.

Bending over on the living room couch, Sands slid a hand along the top of the coffee table. His fingers brushed against the slippery plastic of his cell phone and spongey rubber of its buttons. Sands felt his lips twitching and he allowed himself a smirk of satisfaction. It was time to give Mr. Vinny Poisson a ring.

"Bonjour?" a distant voice said the moment the dim ringing had cut off.

"Vincent Poisson?" Sands asked, lifting the remote to turn the volume of the television down.

There was a pause, but it was brief.

"Oui, yes."

"What if I told you that I knew someone who has a business proposition that you would find very interesting?"

He hoped Vinny wasn't as much of a rat as Al. Pity if he was, because that could ruin everything, which would mean that Sands would have to kill him. Oh well. That was what traitors got.

If his speculations about Vincent's stolen art business were correct, then Sands knew it was incredibly risky of him if he tried to make a deal with the man. He couldn't tell him he was CIA, of course. However, if Vincent agreed to meet with him and accepted his offer, Sands knew he would have to work harder than usual to keep from laughing. Odds were, he would most likely be the one assigned to bring the business down after they got to be a problem.

_Funny the way the world works, isn't it?_

_**Veeery ironic.**_

****"Who is this?" Vincent demanded. He was making sure to keep his voice low. Someone must be in the room with him.

_Probably Édouard, _Sands mused, examining his fingernails lazily.

**_Bet he's scared of his father, the little wanker._**

_Wouldn't doubt it._

"Meet me at the Moulin Rouge tomorrow," Sands said into the phone, sounding bored. "At eight o'clock PM sharp."

"Who are you?" the Mafia man asked again.

With once last glance at his nails, Sands said:

"I'll see you there."

There was a small '_click_' as the phone was slapped shut and a louder '_THUNK_' when Sands tossed it onto the table.

He had never flirted with the thought of telling him the truth. He didn't even smile in amusement at how insisting a person could be when they should have known full well that they weren't going to be told anything.

_I guess nobody knows the saying 'patients is a virtue' anymore._

_**They do, **_the voice assured him. **_They just don't care to listen to it._**

* * *

__

_Another chapter done. Wow. And here I was worried that his thing wasn't gonna be as long as the last one. The paranoia strikes again! XP I dunno _what_ to do to get rid of it. Maybe if I use a fly swatter . . . _

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**Dawnie-7: **I actually did have that bit saved for a later chapter, but thanks for shipping an idea my way. ) My only problem is Sands' reaction to the whole thing. I'm not sure if he'd flip out and turn into the protective older brother or if he'd just shrug it off saying, "Oh, you and Fusco danced the forbidden dance? Well, I can't say neither of you didn't need it," either that or something else entirely that has yet to cross my mind. Personally, I can't see him getting too worked up about it.

**Lynx Ryder: **_Very, very, **very **_relieved to hear that. I'm constantly worrying about making things sounds cliché or turning my characters into Mary Sues. And it's great to know somebody liked the plan/idea comparison. In all honesty, that took the longest to think of. It was a _looong _while before I was satisfied with it. 9.6'

**TimeSaving Tip: **Hey, I remember you! D You're the one who flamed my . . . what was it, my '_Phantom of the Opera_' story? I can't remember, though I know it was _one_ of my '_Invader Zim_' ones, definitely. Then again, none of them have gone by without being insulted at least once, right? Heh. Y'know, I should give you an award for being the first person to fustigate (ohhh, I got to use the word) my OUaTiM stories. But I don't have an award. Sorry. Guess you'll just have to chastise someone else's work and hope _they'll _give you one.

**fanfiction fanatic: **Don't worry, I think I have a few plans concocted now. ) The seventeenth chapter's already written, all I need to do is edit. Oy vey, am I bad at touching up my own work . . .

**DragonHunter200: **Oy vey, government conspiracies . . . Don't even get me started or I'll begin rambling about cinnamon cartels next. Lol, it's a long story. Thanks for boosting my confidence, by the way, and I hope you can break your writer's block as well. (see, why can't the government spend their time working on something that cures that instead of working on things to brainwash us all into joining the military?)

**The Gilatas Monster: **Duh! Of course! How could I go this far and _not _make a Zim ref? I'm surprised I went this long without mentioning the show at least a _little _bit.

**morph: **Meep, you mean you didn't catch it? o.o;;; But this one explained things a bit, okay. Was nervous for a moment, but as long as everything's cleared up now. I _am _doing a bit with Zeb having a vision of Ajedrez, only thing is, it's gonna happen a little while after she gets kidnapped. Thank you for the idea, though. Actually, I never thought of writing up a vision where she sees the boy ride up to Sands on his bike. I think I might be able to do something with that. Thanks for helping! )

o


	18. Setting Them Up

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Eighteen: **Setting Them Up

Well, I'm officially back in skool now. 6.6; It's chaos, as usual but I'll live. u.u

Sands: Those assholes you go to school with won't. -.6

Sidney: XO Don't you dare. The last thing I need is to be hauled to the principal's office because one of Johnny Depp's characters told me to go on a killing spree.

Sands: 9.9 You wouldn't go on the rampage in _school_, dumbass. It wouldn't even be a rampage. You'd just . . . off your fellow classmates while they slept. It's nothing.

Sidney: (dryly) Mmhm. I'm sure you would say that. 9.9;;

**

* * *

**

"Don't."

Lynné's words were cold and sharp with measured defiance. Though hardly a shred of light escaped the sheer curtains, the warning in her eyes was all too visible. She was pushed up against the wall of the darkened bedroom, trapped, but that didn't concern her.

"I don't go this far on the first date unless it's with someone I trust."

"You mean you don't trust me?"

Her fellow agent's voice was breathless and husky, letting her know that he was ready and raring to go if she just said the word. Lynné kept her stubborn silent act going strong. Her own reputation was at stake and she'd be damned if she was going to let this dick-weed screw it up.

"No," she said at last.

An irritated breath blowing through his thin lips, Agent Miller tipped his head back in frustration.

"I thought you were easy," he groaned tiredly.

"And where did you get that idea?" she replied, mirroring the disappointment in his voice.

One glance at her scantly clad body told Lynné everything.

"Oohhh . . ." Lyn breathed in false realization. "I see . . ."

Seduction lit her eyes as she took several silent steps forward. There was a light in Miller's eyes as well, one that Lynné was disturbingly familiar with. He smiled, confident he was going to get exactly what he wanted. So it came as a real shock when Lynné sunk her almond-shaped fingernails into his shoulders and roughly shoved him away.

"What the -- !?" Miller started.

"I just wanna know where you got the idea that I would let you do whatever you wanted. Miller," she sighed, exasperated that he had missed the obvious, "you're CIA. Trained to find out everything you can about a person just by looking at them. Now, I know I've got a few walls built up, but you should've been able to tell what type of girl I am."

She shook her head and gave a very annoying 'tsk.'

"That's such a let-down . . ."

"Yeah?" Miller challenged, furious that a woman had defied him. "You're a rookie, new to the Company. I'd like to see you try and get anything out of anybody." His lips curled into a twisted grin. "I'll bet my dick you can't."

Lynné's eyebrows rose in a way that clearly said, 'Can't I?' She reached out, stole a small blanket from her bed, and wound it around her shoulders.

"Just to make sure there are no distractions," she explained.

Gazing at Miller with cold eyes the entire time, she folded her slender arms over her chest and resumed her position against the wall.

"Now, from what I've been able to decipher," Lyn began, "you are suffering from low self-confidence, probably a result of abusive or neglectful parents. Therefore, you feel the need to build up your ego and by doing that you treat other people – women in particular – like shit.

"You are a bitter and spineless person, Agent Miller, who is fortunate enough to be christened with a threatening appearance and attitude. Both of which have probably been very useful to you in the past."

If looks could kill, Lyn would have been dead on the spot and she knew it, but she kept up her calm appearance with ease. Miller may have had more experience in the CIA than she did, and he could certainly look deadly when he was serious about something, but he didn't intimidate her. Hell, her younger stepsister Grace was scarier than this guy was.

"Oh, and as far as your dick is concerned?" she continued casually. "I wouldn't be betting something like that if I were you. It's all you have goin' for you and, from what I've heard, there's not much to it anyway.

"Now, if you don't mind . . ." Lyn's voice faded off. She slinked calmly towards her bedroom door, opened it, and jabbed her index finger outside.

Knowing full well where she was going with this, Miller kept his feet rooted to the smooth hardwood floor. No way. No fucking way. She was a woman of about twenty-two and she was _not _going to order him around. Lynné may have been able to figure him out – her identification of his past was direfully accurate – but he'd be damned if she was going to tell him what to do.

From her position at the doorway, Lynné saw that the other agent wasn't going to move. She let out a harsh sigh, wondering all the while why people couldn't just do as they were told and save her a lot of time. Reaching around behind her like she was going to scratch her back, Lynné pulled a fully loaded gun out from underneath the blanket and pointed it at Miller, looking mildly bored as she did so.

_I am so glad I had this hidden in there, _she thought as the blanket fell from her shoulders and landed on the floor, draping across her feet like a fabric flood.

Though she uttered no warnings, no threats, no words at all, Miller knew that the agent-in-training was serious. Her sincerity did not stop him from shooting one more glare her way, though he knew the action was pointless.

Still wearing the scowl that would had sent other women scurrying away in tears, Miller stalked over to Lynné, who kept her relaxed composure without even trying. He paused in the doorway to throw one more ugly look her way, but Lynné stared back up at him completely unconcerned.

Just as he was about to leave at last, Lynné re-crossed her arms and offered him one last tip.

"Yo, Chris," she called, using the slang as her personal nerve grater.

"What?" Miller snarled, not even looking at her.

"Button your fly."

**

* * *

**

Scrunching up her nose in animosity, Lynné fought the urge to pound her bed mattress with balled fists of frustration as she realized that thoughts of the late Agent Miller had somehow wormed their way into her head.

Oh . . . Miller . . . What if she _would _have . . . ?

No.

While he _was _very attractive (almost illegally so), he wasn't right for her. His outside was a dark and dangerous woman's dream. They should have been the perfect match. But his insides were poison. Not saying that she was all peaches 'n cream herself, but Miller made her seem downright sweet.

Diabolical, impious, fiendish, and nearly sociopathic, Agent Christopher Miller looked like a cross between and that kid who played Draco Malfoy in those Harry Potter movies.

He would have gotten along well with Cat. Hell, Lyn figured, if the two had known each other, they probably would have been a couple.

But no. Her stepsister was a rat; only difference between her and the other rodents was that she fed on gossip, not cheese. Miller, on the other hand, was a prick. A _blackmailing _prick. One who lurked around trying to dig up everything he could on a person, much like Cat. However, while she burned up her hard earned hearsay with uncontrollable anticipation, _he _collected and saved his for his own personal use. Miller would hold a story above a person's head like a guillotine's giant blade.

Until he had everything he wanted, of course, and then he would give the executioner the signal anyway. Could anyone say 'extortionist?'

**_You know he's only after your looks, _**the voice pointed out drowsily, having been rattled from it's sleep by Lynné's constant ranting.

_No, I don't._

_**Have you ever met a man with a different motive?**_

_He's not the type to do that because he knows what happens if he does. I already have several fates in store for him, some that I think you'd find very creative._

_**You mean that one with the honey and the anthill, for example? **_the voice yawned, bored. **_I thought that was reserved for Ajedrez._**

_Yeah,_ Lyn agreed, _but she's _dead_, so that means it's up for grabs._

_**Why don't you save that one for Cat and just castrate Liam? That way he'll live, but he won't have much to live **_**for**

_That's just stupid, _Lynné commented bluntly. _Why should I kill him when he wouldn't serve a purpose anymore? He might still be alive, but what good is he if I can't . . . have my way with him?_

_**I couldn't help but notice, **_the voice murmured airily, **_that you used the word 'I' in a possessive form. Anything you'd care to confess?_**

_May I remind you that _you're _the one who insisted on 'taking him to bed?' _Lynné inquired, just barely hiding her irritation with the voice.

There was no answer.

Annoyed, Lyn turned over on her back and stared up at the ceiling. It was blank, bland, boring. The empty white canvas before her offered nothing for the imagination. It glared back at her without a trace of emotion or feeling and she wondered vaguely who decided to paint it such a dull color anyway.

_Are you gonna answer me any time soon? _she tried lifelessly.

**_I thought you'd be happy when I stopped talking._**

_I would, _she said reasonably, _but seeing how there's no one else to talk to . . ._

_**Oh, fuck you.**_

_Sorry, but I can't see how that would be possible. And even if it were, I don't do women._

Without another word, she shifted so that she was now lying comfortably on her side. From her new position Lynné now had a clear view of the hallway. Perfect. Now if somebody broke in, all she had to do was reach under her mattress, aim, and . . .

She didn't know when her thoughts melted into dreams, except that one minute she was lying in bed, staring out into the hallway . . . and the next, Cat crossed her path, and she blew that pussy sky high. So lost in her own imagination, Lynné didn't even hear the voice when it finally made it's reply.

**_But you _will _do Liam._**

**

* * *

**

****

**"**Celui-là a semblé agréable," (That one sounded nice,) Joséphine commented as Sands flipped past another channel.

"I'm _not _watching Oprah," he stated plainly. "What the fuck's she doing on at five AM? In France, no less. I didn't think they'd accept her."

"Vous vous êtes trompés, alors," (You were wrong, then,) the girl remarked distantly. The sounds issuing from the living room TV had already captured her attention. Sands felt his eyes narrow and, despite the girl's innocents. He couldn't help the irritation that crept into his voice.

"Shouldn't you be in bed?"

Joséphine, who knew the agent was looking at her with interest, stared defiantly back up at him.

"Pas quand je ne peux pas dormir." (Not when I can't sleep.)

Sands felt an eye roll coming on, but he managed to bite his tongue instead of throwing an insult the girl's way. His comment was great, too, if he did say so himself. 'Do you want me to do something about that, kid? Cuz I could give you something that would put you to sleep for a long time.' But Sands restrained himself. Something told him that, even if he _had _threatened the little girl, she wouldn't have minded. After all, she was a Mafia don's granddaughter. The possibility that she was used to intimidation was very likely.

"Pourquoi ne sont pas _vous _dans le lit?" (Why aren't _you _in bed?) Joséphine now asked.

"I am," Sands replied calmly, gesturing to the couch he was reclined on.

**_She can't see, fuckmook. She's blind._**

_Since when does that concern me? Ask me if I _care_, why don't you?_

**_So, _**the voice began casually, **_why _do _you care?_**

_I don't._

_**You should.**_

_Why? And when did you start acting as my conscience?_

_**Because, you whiney motherfucker, she's in the same situation as **_**you_. You'd think you'd have at least a _tiny _bit of compassion for the kid._**

_She seems to be doing fine without it._

_**Yes, but unlike you, who only had to live in darkness for two months, **_**she _has to stay that way the rest of her life._**

_I repeat, she seems to be doing fine. _You_, however, are acting uncharacteristically caring. You haven't been into my stash, have you?_

_**Oh, would you shut the fuck up? Christ, those jokes **_**aren't _funny, they're just annoying._**

_I feel accomplished, then, _Sands told the voice, grinning.

"Pourquoi ne sont pas vous endormi?" (Why aren't you asleep?)

Sands looked down at the girl who was staring back up at him with large, curious eyes that would never know the world.

"Well," he began slowly, "I _would _be if a certain _kid _stopped bothering me and fucked off."

Joséphine's face twisted into an angry scowl. Sands half expected her to stick her tongue out at him, but it almost seemed too childish for such a mature little girl.

"Je serais endormi," (I _would _be asleep) she began snidely, "seulement Mademoiselle Zebbidy me garde éveillé avec ses cauchemars et Liam Plus de souris toujours dans Mademoiselle Lynné's le lit." (only Mademoiselle Zebbidy keeps me awake with her nightmares and Mousier Liam's always in Mademoiselle Lynné's bed.)

_That _stopped his mental quarrel with the voice.

**_Oh boy . . . _**the voice snorted, barely containing it's laughter.

"What do you mean?" Sands asked tersely. "Why would Mousier Liam even be in Mademoiselle Lynné's bedroom?"

"Je ne sais pas," (I don't know,) Joséphine replied, shrugging her small shoulders. "Mademoiselle rêvait la nuit dernière. Peut-être c'est pour cela il était là." (Mademoiselle was dreaming last night. Maybe that's why he was there.)

"Uh-huh," Sands said skeptically, "And how do _you _know all of this?"

"Je l'ai suivi," (I followed him,) she told Sands simply.

"May I ask _why_?" Sands sighed, exasperated.

Once again, Joséphine found herself shrugging, yet she also felt a small smile on her face at the same time.

"La même raison je suis venu ici." (The same reason I came down here.)

**

* * *

**

While waiting inside the Moulin Rouge, a single thought coursed through Vincent Poisson's mind:

_Écrasez l'infâm. _(Crush the evil thing.)

It was a quote by Voltaire, one of the leaders in the Age of Enlightenment in France many centuries ago. The man had wonderful sarcastic wit and the uncanny ability to give people a different perspective of things like the king, the law, and especially religion.

Religion. Vincent didn't want to even _think _about religion. He himself was really very skeptical about the entire concept, so of course his father just _had _to be a devout Catholic.

_Écrasez l'infâm._

He had always taken those words to heart. After all, there were so many things he supposed he could call evil. His father, his brothers, his father's 'business,' the men who worked for the business, the men who wanted to bring the business down . . . The list was endless as he was always adding more things to it. The clergy, ridiculously high heeled shoes, and the cartoon shows on that one American network (he couldn't remember its name) were just a few newcomers.

France was his truest love, there was no denying it. He would hate to leave his country, but if it meant finally being able to follow through with his own ambitions and get away from his father as well . . . he would do it. He wanted to get away from the Mafia. He wanted to start his own business. He wanted to be an art dealer (if the art was sold legally or not was nobody's business). And if he had to leave his beloved France to do that, he would.

After all, when he moved, he could always set up location in Canada. Quebec, preferably. It was so much like France in many ways. Was it possible he could feel right at home there?

Perhaps, but it wasn't likely. Vincent supposed he would begin to pine for his country after enough time had passed. He would ignore it, but continue to brood about the subject until the day came when he could push it aside no longer. He would then return to France and what would happen then . . . Well, he would know when the time came. Until then, he didn't want to think about it.

'What if I told you that I knew someone who has a business proposition that you would find very interesting?'

Vincent was more that positive he knew exactly what the mysterious caller had been talking about. And that worried him. Someone knew. Or they at least had a vague idea as to what he wanted to do. Or perhaps they just knew that he wanted out of the country. In any case, none of these ideas were very comforting.

There were the risks. If he did business with the man who had called him, there was a possibility he was doing business with the wrong person. Of course, when you work for the mob, there's always _that _possibility. He did not know anything about the caller except for a few interesting details: He was male, he _may _know of Vincent's plans, and he was American.

_Very helpful, monsieur, _Vincent commented dryly, _I can read you like a book._

He didn't know anything about the stranger other than those three things, and none of them put him at ease. Especially the fact that he was American. Americans meant trouble, law enforcement, the government . . . And that meant the Mafia would go down, and he, of course, would have to be dragged down with it.

But if this stranger okayed in Vincent's eyes. . . If it turned out that he _could _get him out of France . . . If he could do it safely . . . And if he only had to do a few simple tasks first . . . a simple task that could possibly involve destroying his own family . . . would he, Vincent Poisson, agree?

_Écrasez l'infâm._

Oui. He would.

* * *

_Well, now we know that Vincent is gonna agree to Sands' offer. Almost forgot about him, didn't ya? I know I did forget Alphonse for about two chapters. By the time I remembered him, I thought it was almost too late. But then Vinny came into the picture and kinda saved the day, so to speak. So, really, should I be thanking him?_

Sands: No. He's the _bad guy_ in this story, remember?

Sidney: Not necessarily. (coy grin)

Sands: Oh, Christ, you're not gonna turn this into something . . . icky . . . are you?

Sidney: (innocently) What ever do you mean by that, dear?

Sands: You know exactly what I mean. (glare) I'm _not _like that, as I've already explained to Jack.

Captain Jack: (frustrated and fed up) I already told you all, I'm _not –_

Sidney: 9.9 We know, we know. I think Sands only said that to get back at you for all those eunuch jokes.

Jack: What d'yeh mean jokes, girl? They were pure facts.

Sands: 8o

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**morph: **'Tis okay; I probably wouldn't've caught it either at first, knowing me. Loved '_Secret Window_' too. I know what you mean about catching a bit of his other characters in Mort. I remember thinking '_Oh, this is like pre-Jack Sparrow in a way_' when I was watching him as Roux in '_Chocolat' _after I'd seem PotC. That's what I've always liked about Johnny Depp: he can incorporate some of his other character's quirks without making all of said characters exactly the same. Oh, and . . .

The Head-Voice Brigade: (mixture of enthusiastic, dull, sarcastic, and overly cheerful) Hi!!!

Sidney: Was that all of them?

Sands: There are like eighteen of us. -.o How can you tell?

**Lynx Ryder: **It cheered you up? o.o Wow, I've never heard that before. ) Guess this really is the fan fic of new things. As for flames, well . . . if I had gotten that one a year ago it really _would _have bothered me. But now I know that the people who flame are just immature jerks, not to mention cowards because they oh-so-conveniently forget to log in every time they flame. I'm _partially_ quote Johnny Depp when I say, if people can just sit around on their butts insulting me, then I'd say they have a lot of spare time and should consider other topics . . . or masturbation. Lol, love that quote.

**vanillafluffy: **lol, Bunny! That pun-name goes back, I mean waaay back. Whenever I had to type my name in for an online profile or something like that, I always used ones like 'Bunny Luvsit' or 'Ivonna Peealot' something like that. Sands and Lyn both came off to me as people who would do something like that whenever they had to give their name. I never thought of a flashback of _Liam's _childhood, but it seems like a good idea, thanks! And you're right, patients _are _a virtue only for doctors . . . and dentists. _Especially _the dentists, evil money grubbers with their drills . . . o.o;;; Geh, I try to avoid them as much as possible.

**Dawnie-7: **XD I cracked up reading your review. Hey, ya gotta give Liam credit, though. He hasn't passed out in this story! . . . yet! (evil grin)

Liam: Wait, wait, what? o.o;;;

**fanfiction fanatic: **Oy vey, you are not alone in the world of perfectionism. (raises hand) I'm guilty of that too. With everything including my stories. My mother and younger sister drive me crazy cuz they're both so unorganized. And, lol, I will remember that! Blah, Pepsi! XP I've never liked it anyway. And not just because it is the drink of Britney Spears . . . the drink of evil . . .

**DragonHunter200: **I'd nearly forgotten about Moreau too, not entirely, but enough not to be sure where to tie him into all of this. XD 'Less Recruiting, More Writing,' definitely wanna send that one out. Unfortunately, the way our congressmen are, I doubt they'd listen. ( Probably mistake us for drug-induced hippies or something like that. Still, never hurts to try though. u.u

o


	19. Topsy Turvey

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Nineteen: **Topsy Turvey

This just in: Go see the movie '_Collateral._' Seriously, whether you like Tom Cruise or not (I'm not a huge fan, but I don't loath him like some) go see it. Why? Cuz his character is so much like Sands it's not even funny. Okay, yeah, it _is _funny. It's a good movie, too, so go see it. His character, Vincent, isn't _exactly _like Sands but I couldn't help but notice many uncanny similarities between the two. Oy vey . . . I feel another head-voice coming on . . . (grips head) O.6; _Geeeeaaah_ . . .

**

* * *

**

"Well, that's taken care of," Sands stated as he strode through the front door of the house.

"You got Poisson to agree?" Lyn asked from the couch, not even bothering to look up from her latest read: '_Where the Buffalo Roam._'

"That I did," her brother replied, sinking down next to her. "That, and . . ."

"And?" Lynné suggested dully, still half-engrossed in her book.

"I found out Poisson's party dates," he finished, smiling slightly.

"Mmm," was all she said.

Inwardly, Sands let out a groan of frustration.

_Christ all mighty, if she starts this shit again . . ._

"Care to know when he's having it?"

Lyn gave a sort of half-shrug that had a light wave of her hand to go with it.

Eyes focused on the ceiling above, Sands let out an exasperated breath through his nose with a side glance at Lyn. She took no notice, turning over another page of her book.

"Lyn," Sands said flatly, clearly bored with this. "Lynné."

"_Mmm_?" she murmured a little more forcefully this time, indicating that she _was _indeed listening.

"Is there any point to this?" Sands wanted to know.

"Do they have Halloween in France?" Lynné asked suddenly, actually taking her attention off of her book. "I can't remember."

"Yeah, they do," her brother replied. "Only they jumped on the bandwagon a little late, so that's why a lot of people aren't familiar with it. Poisson's not having his blow out then, though."

Lynné's right eyebrow went up, peaking with interest.

"Oh?"

"He's having it the week _before_."

"The week before," she echoed, "That's the twenty-fourth. Wonder why he's doing it then?"

Sands shrugged carelessly.

"Vincent said it was to avoid interference with other party plans. So Eddy Poisson likes to plan ahead. That's good."

**_Too good?_**

_Bet your ass it is._

"Is it still a costume party?" Lynné asked suddenly.

Her brother merely smirked in a 'What-do-you-think?' manner. Seeing this, Lyn sighed in provocation, but she couldn't help the grin that was tugging at her lips.

"I suppose I'll have to get one on eBay, then."

"Get one what on eBay?" Zebbidy asked as she gracefully descended the steps to the living room.

"Costume," Lyn answered. "We'll be needing them for the shindig Édouard's throwing. He'll probably provide yours for you, however."

"So it's set then?" the other woman questioned, leaning over the back of the couch so her head hovered between the two agents. "I'm going with Poisson? When?"

"Tomorrow," Sands responded tiredly, reclining against the cushions as he raised a hand to knead his eyes. They were stinging again, but he didn't think it was anything to be concerned about.

"Oh, well in that case," Zebbidy began casually, "Anybody got any booze?"

**

* * *

**

"You want booze?" Lynné called to Zebbidy. "Help me find the wine cellar."

"There's a wine cellar?" Zebbidy asked, following the agent into the kitchen.

"Of course there is," she sighed, as if it were obvious. "You forget we're in _France_."

"It's that a stereoty –" Zebbidy started to say.

Lynné stopped where she stood. She remained that way for all of five seconds before spinning around to face the other two. When they saw her expression, they knew they had annoyed her because for once she was allowing herself to be read and her message was all too clear: Lynné Sands was fed up.

"We've been living here for three months, Zebbidy," she said quietly. "During those three months, have you noticed _nothing _about the French?"

"No," Zebbidy responded snidely, refusing to be intimidated by such a breakable creature. "Of course I've learned some things."

"Ah." Lyn nodded towards her as she opened her hands palms up as if expecting Zebbidy to present her with some kind of trinket.

"There are several stereotypes that _are _true," Zebbidy began slowly, biding her time. "They _do _smoke a lot here, they _will _pay more for one good pair of jeans instead of buying several cheap pairs, and," she paused, surveying Lynné dubiously. "And . . . they do drink wine. A lot."

Satisfied, the agent gave a final nod, and turned her back to Zebbidy and Liam.

"But that doesn't mean there's a wine cellar here!" Zebbidy protested, following her as she disappeared around a corner.

"I don't know about you Wisconsin girls," Lynné remarked, "but those hailin' for Colorado know that in France, the rich don't keep their wine sitting around. They always have –" she stopped in front of a door that Zebbidy had always assumed lead to a pantry " – a wine cellar."

A somewhat triumphant smirk was playing on her lips. Grasping the doorknob, she jiggled it heartlessly. The door remained closed, but Lynné didn't seem to mind.

"However, Mrs. Demio likes to be safe, so it makes sense that the door's locked."

_Well if it's locked, then – _But Zebbidy never finished her thought. At that moment, Lynné had whipped out a neat, compact tool kit and was filtering through it for the right instrument.

_Lock pick, I'll be damned . . ._

"Never bothered to check out this room before," Lyn was explaining as she held up a small tool with a thin wire at its tip. "Although, I always took it for a wine cellar. Why else would it be locked?"

**_Unless this is where they keep the dead bodies._**

_Shut up._

Pushing the voice's comments aside, Lynné stooped down on her knees to better see the doorknob and inserted her lock pick into the keyhole with ease.

"Works better than hairpins," she explained to Zebbidy as she worked the pick around the slot.

Just then, a small '_click_' sounded throughout the kitchen and the grin was back on Lynné's face in two seconds flat.

**

* * *

**

They were all sitting around the living room, save for Josey who was, as far as they knew, asleep upstairs. Two ghostly green bottles of long emptied wine rested on the coffee table's smooth glass surface. Beside them, a third, half-drained bottle was snatched away as a fair hand reached out and took hold of its slender neck.

Lynné and Zebbidy were both rather tipsy, whereas their male companions were smashed. The corners of the room had been growing increasingly blurred as the dark evening faded into the dead of night. Every time Liam turned his head his surroundings ran together until he stopped. He hadn't gotten totally hammered since college and he knew he would be paying the consequences with a hangover the next morning, but Lynné always had aspirin on hand, so for now he did not worry and lifted a glass to his lips.

"So Lynné . . . Lynné sent the tennis ball flying back across the court . . . and it hit her in the face?" Zebbidy gasped, fighting a laugh. "She hit her in the _face_?

"Whoa, whoa, hold up," Lynné interrupted, holding up a hand in defense. "I didn't do _any_thing. It was an accident."

"Oh, I'm sure," Zebbidy scoffed, waving a hand at her. Daintily, she took what had to be her hundredth sip of wine, savoring every moment as though she would never get another chance.

Though if I'm going to be living with Édouard partaking in wine samplings should be an every day occurrence. 

"Then she began crawling towards me for help," Sands explained, taking up his story where he left off.

"But you backed away from her, I'll bet" Zebbidy finished, snickering.

"Tripped," he corrected, lowering his own glass of deep maroon liquor. "There was nothing I could do."

"Yeah," Zebbidy said sarcastically. "Yeah, I'll bet. That woman is evil, though, so even if it was intentional, she deserved it. Were there any lasting side-effects?"

"Unfortunately not," Lynné sighed, making no effort to cover her disappointment. "She was always the way she is and the tennis ball had nothing to do with it."

"Too bad, though," Sands remarked thoughtfully. "If that were the case, she could've used it as an excuse for everything that's wrong with her."

"What's there to be wrong with her?" Lyn wanted to know. "She's a scheming, back-stabbing bitch. Need I go on?"

"Anybody know any drinking games?" Liam quizzed suddenly.

"Since when do you play drinking games?" Lynné asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I didn't even know he drank," Sands admitted to her, refilling his wineglass.

"Well I haven't," Liam said, slowly taking Lynné into focus. "Not since college."

"Oh, gosh, college," his partner gasped, tilting her head back and letting out a strange laugh that caught Liam by surprise. Even in his drunken haze he couldn't help but acknowledge this. When had Lynné ever actually laughed in front of him? Stunned, Liam realized that he couldn't conjure up such a time.

"What about college?" Zebbidy asked, edging closer to the other woman and therefore closer to Sands, who didn't seem to mind.

"God, there are so many things," Lynné murmured, shaking her head. "Wow. . . . Okay," she after pausing for a moment, thinking, "here's a good one.

"Every year, the senior designer's class always held this convention for. There'd be free samples: Lip sticks, lotions, those sort of things. This one time, a friend of mine, Vanessa, and I . . . we decided to go to this thing."

"Why didn't you go earlier?" Zebbidy wondered curiously, running a thin finger along the rim of her glass.

"They hadn't heard about the free giveaways 'til then," Sands smirked. Lynné's eyes narrowed over the edge of her drink, but she waved him off absentmindedly.

"Anyway, yes, Vanessa and I decided to go and take a looksee because, like all women, we loved free stuff. Free cosmetic stuff especially. So we were going from booth to booth, picking up little doohickeys and . . . whatchamacallits . . . and we came to the Johnson & Johnson counter.

"There, on the table, were a bunch of little packets. So, ignoring the strange looks we were getting, we collected I dunno _how_ many of these things and walked off to the next stand.

"After a while, we snagged ourselves a bench and started rifling through our loot, checking out what we got. Vanessa pulls out one of the ten million Johnson & Johnson packets we picked up, and starts putting it on."

She stopped once again, taking yet another drink of her wine and enjoying ever minute of it.

_Been so long since I got wasted. Can't even here the voice now, thank God._

"So she rips the packet open and begins to rub it all over her hands," Lyn continued. "Suddenly, she stops. She just stops . . . _dead_. And she remarks that 'this stuff smells funny.' I take the packet from her, read the label – at this point I can feel my eyes widening – and then I look back up at her."

"What? What happened?" Liam demanded good-naturedly, the excess alcohol in his system showing wonderful consequences.

"Well," his partner began, a coy smile spreading gradually across her face. "Turns out, it wasn't lotion as we had first suspected."

By now, Zebbidy had successfully managing to make her wineglass sing. The shrill, shaky notes pealed off of the crystal and vibrated eerily throughout the room, though she hardly paid them the any attention.

"So what was it?" she asked, her finger still stuck on automatic glide.

Again, Lynné felt her mouth tweak into a smirk.

"Self-lubricant."

**

* * *

**

Only a dusky, opaque, meekly lit bulb provided light for the room. Lifting his eyelids slowly, Sands could just make out his murky surroundings. Red recliner, festive rugs, large TV hidden within an equally mammoth cabinet, that sleek glass coffee table he had banged his head on, and there, sitting on top of the God-awful thing was a woman.

"We'll get you bugged before you leave tomorrow," Sands muttered, rubbing his temple as he laid down on the daybed.

"Good," she murmured, bobbing her head a bit.

His sister had gone to bed, as had Fusco. Or perhaps he would be more accurate if he said his sister and Fusco had gone to bed. Maybe he could even go as far as the two lovers had departed, hand in hand, to commence in their own private rendezvous. Then again, that may have been taking things a tad far.

He turned his head, wanting to get a better look at the person who could make or break his career, but it was a painful mistake. A single beam of light bounced off of the glossy table beside him, hitting him square in the eyes and causing an involuntary wince.

"Are you okay?" Zebbidy asked, alcohol still present on her breath. It wasn't unpleasant, though. It was subtle with the faint scent of bitter grapes.

"Fine," Sands replied dully.

"You sure?" she asked curiously, sliding off of the table and onto the daybed.

"If you ask that again, I will have no choice but to deem you nosey," Sands warned.

"Well you'd be wrong if you did that," she said, her words slightly mashed together due to the wine. "I'm simply compassionate."

"That could be a problem, you know," he pointed out.

Zebbidy leaned in closer to him. "Why?"

"Because if you start losing your edge, things could turn ugly. Poisson might start to think you're venerable and try to . . . wheedle information out of you."

"He's been after me for months and suddenly I'm just going to show up on his doorstep, why _wouldn't _he want information?"

_She's getting close . . . she's getting really close . . ._

The voice yawned, roused from its drunken stupor, **_Not like you mind, so what's there to complain about?_**

****Their noses were but an inch apart_; that_ was something to complain about. Her eyes sparked with interest and shone even in the bland glow of the room. His contacts were out, and the wine had undoubtedly affected his vision, causing everything to blend together into one grainy collage, yet Sands could still make out Zebbidy's features perfectly. She was that close.

**_But like I said, you don't mind._**

_If I don't mind, then why the hell am I complaining about it?_

_**You're not complaining, **_the voice sighed, making Sands picture a mental eye roll. **_You're _whining_. There's a difference._**

_And the difference would be?_

_**There. Did you listen to yourself? You're doing it again.**_

_Doing _whatHe was beginning to grow irritated. After a night of drinking, all he wanted to do was sleep, but of course, the voice couldn't allow that. It would be the _decent _thing to do.

**_You've gone all . . . nasally. You're whining._**

_Oh fuck off. _That _is a result of my sinuses acting up._

_**You don't **_**have _sinuses, Sheldon, _**the voice reminded him, sounding as though it was talking to a two-year-old.

_Oh,_ Sands remarked in mock-surprise. _Silly me._

A familiar voice suddenly broke through his thoughts. He let his eyes lead him to a teetering Zebbidy about to fall off the edge of the couch if nobody grabbed her in time.

"So how long d'you think it'll take before you stop them?" she asked, swaying uneasily.

"How long do _you _think it'll be before you put down that wine?" Sands retorted, lacing his fingers behind his head.

Zebbidy was indignant. _Nice._

"For your information," she began, her gaze shifting from left to right, back and forth, never targeting him exactly. "I have not had a drink . . . in . . . – " she turned, nearly toppling off of the couch, to look at the clock on the opposite wall "-- . . . fifteen . . . fifteen . . ."

"Seconds," Sands finished, tucking a smirk away for the time being.

"Right," she noted, blinking slowly. Carefully, using both hands, she extended her arms in front of her in one grand gesture, intending to settle her wineglass on the coffee table. Leaning forward turned out to be a mistake. As soon as she began to return her glass, Zebbidy found out just how unstable the drink had made her.

Her head was spinning, no . . . her _surroundings, _they were what was moving. They whirled around her in an unending vortex of furniture, rugs, paintings, and other assorted decorations. Everything around her was churning – everything _inside _her was spiraling as well – but what Zebbidy saw was the table. It felt as though someone had taken hold of the house, lifted it up, and tipped it towards the backyard so everything was tumbling forward. And she was falling towards that crystal clear table. If she collided . .

_This is gonna leave a welt . . ._

Just as she was about to make contact with the glass surface, she stopped. Everything stopped. She was no longer falling forward, nothing was. Someone had set the house back down.

Twisting her head around, Zebbidy shot Sands a strange look. He remained as impassive as always. Glancing down, however, she saw that his arm (the one closest to her) was wrapped securely around her waist. He had, she dramatically declared, saved her from becoming one with the table without even sitting up. In fact, Zebbidy realized, his other arm was still tucked leisurely behind his head.

Still keeping her eyes focused on the agent, Zebbidy reached forward, her hands still clutching the wineglass steadily, she placed it upon the dangerous – yes, she had already deemed it a hazard – piece of furniture that was the coffee table.

Through his own spinning, liquor induced fog, Sands saw that only the dregs remained.

Slowly, he pulled her down next to him, finding himself unable to hold back a grin this time.

* * *

__

_Remember, kids, they've both slammed a more than a few bottles so that's bound to have some kind of affect on Sands and Zebbidy's behavior. Don't panic though, to those of you who might be thinking that those two are gonna . . . well, you know . . ._

Lynné: Do the horizontal cha-cha. X3

Sidney: -.e They're not. And they probably won't, at least not in this story. Sands is still a little testy around women. Thank you, Ajedrez. (glare) So he's not up to trusting anyone just yet.

Lynné: But . . . (singing) . . . seasons may cha-ange . . .

Sidney: -.6;; Stop plagiarizing '_Moulin Rouge_' and help me answer the reviews. (warningly) Or I'll have you go through a midlife crisis in which you mope around all day and dye your hair blonde. u.u

Lynné: Vous sucez. (You suck.)

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**DragonHunter200: **I feel for ya with the Oprah thing. Something about overly caring people disturbs me a little. Not that it's a _bad _thing to care, but to have become so popular because of it? (suspiciously) Something's up. Anyway, government glass. XP Didn't care for it that much when I had it last year, but felt it was good to know I had gained at least some information on _the enemy_. (shifty eyes) Don't mind me; after chapter sixteen I think it's clear that I do not trust them. Not at all. And, yep, your first quote was from '_The Piccini Notebooks_' (I think o.o;) and I know the second one was from '_Candide,_' one I'd really like to read, actually. And I've definitely got a hippie-side to me as well, though I don't do drugs either. I just make a lot of jokes about them. 9.9;

**morph: **o Wow. That _is_ appropriate. The song _does _fit him, doesn't it? Kind of a Mexican/rock 'n roll mix. Lol, I can't spell either, which is why so-and-so is thanked for inventing spell check. u.u

**Lynx Ryder: **I really debated sending Sands up to Lyn's room in that last chapter, but then Josey sorta dulled the idea by explaining that Lynné had been dreaming. That, in a way, made Sands realize that Liam was just trying to help, I think.

Lynné: Even though it's pointless.

Sidney: Right, right. 9.9 Like I said, I'm not sure if Sands would have a fit over the idea of Lyn and Liam –

Lynné: Doin' the horizontal cha-cha. XD

Sidney: Ignore her, she's drunk. -.6 Or if he would just kind of shrug it off, saying something like 'Had to happen sooner or later.' Or, as I said, possibly something else (I don't know what 9.9) entirely. o.o Don't know for know but I'm certainly hoping to figure it out soon.

**Dawnie-7: **O.o? Really? Thanks! I didn't think it was all that funny, actually but maybe I was wrong (hey, it's been known to happen . . . a lot). I know for Josey I wanted to keep an air of mystery around her without turning her into one of those annoying psychic kids you see in movies and TV anymore (somebody tell me who in their right mind decided that was a great new trend!?!) But 'speaks in riddles' . . . hmm . . . I never thought of putting it that way, but now that you say that it makes sense. I like how that sounds, too.

**fanfiction fanatic: **Just remember, nothing good can ever come from Britteny Spears. Blah XP

o


	20. Collateral Damage

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Twenty: **Collateral Damage

Grr . . . In the second scene of the last chapter, Liam was originally to have followed Zeb and Lyn into the kitchen, but I edited him out of it. Or at least . . . I _thought _I had. (scowls) He originally had only one line in that scene, so that explains why I took him out of it, however, I must not have edited as thoroughly as I thought because (after posting, of course 9.9;;) I detected several parts where I have Liam listed even though he shouldn't be there. Sorry if I confused anyone. Really, it's not that big a deal, I just happen to notice a lot of little things like this _after _I post and find it really irksome. I guess that slip up back in chapter nineteen was what "made me snap," so to speak.

Oh yes, one more thing, something that will hopefully explain the title of this chapter. Those of you who have seen and liked the movie '_Collateral_' will find this chapter very entertaining.

Or at least . . . I _hope _you will. ;)

**

* * *

**

Sunlight warmed her face, turning the inside of her eyelids a reddish orange color and making them burn, but not badly. Actually, it was a rather pleasant feeling. Zebbidy was content to lay on the daybed the rest of the day. As always, however, she knew that wouldn't happen. But for now she could stay there. She was comfortable, after all, and it was still early. She wasn't going to be 'kidnapped' until noontime, anyway.

With a small sigh, she shifted on the large couch, letting her body sink into the cushions beneath her.

_What on Earth . . . ? That's . . . not a cushion . . ._

Even in her confusion she refused to open her eyes. The thoughts of more sleep were still promising and Zebbidy was hopeful. Instead, she traced her index finger along the unfamiliar material that lay beneath her. It wasn't the daybed; that was made of leather.

_Poor cows . . . _she thought with sympathetic tiredness.

She continued her search, now drawing small circles as she tried to figure out what the mystery fabric was. It was silk, that she determined, so that ruled the blanket out. The afghan covering her was made of a noticeably rougher material.

Suddenly, something stirred. An arm snaked its way around her torso and rested lightly on her hips. Zebbidy's eyes flew open. The events of the night before washed over her, unclogging her stopped memory.

_Oh my gods . . . But . . . we didn't do anything, _she assured herself sternly. _I would've known if we'd done something, I always do. Every time. Damnit, how much did I drink last night??_

One glance at the coffee table and three empty wine bottles told her everything.

Zebbidy started to move, but Sands wasn't about to let that happen. He tightened his hold on her, but not painfully so. It seemed as if his action was merely a reminder that he was still there, in control, and that she could still go back to sleep. That is, until he spoke.

"No, luv, don't be like that . . ." he complained in a worn English accent. His words were strung so tightly together they were nearly unintelligible. Zebbidy blinked. Carefully, she lifted her head off of his chest and attempted to steal a look at him. She was partially successful, managing to catch a glimpse of his free hand. It was waving around wildly, making flippant gestures without stopping once. If he wasn't careful, Zebbidy imagined as she watched his constantly moving hand, he was going to put an eye out.

"It wasn' me yeh saw, honestly. Yeh've got the wrong man, luv."

_Wrong man?_ Confused an more than a little amused, Zebbidy tried to sit up, but Sands, or whoever he was in his dream, would have none of that.

"Listen, darling, I know yeh're angry but yeh've gotta believe me," he practically pleaded before taking a drag on a cigarette that only he could see. "Can this at least wait 'til later? The concert starts in five minutes an' I've no bloody idea where the stage is. This whole godforsaken place is like a maze."

"Um, Sands?" Zebbidy began uncertainly, not sure whether to be concerned or amused. The latter was much more favorable to her. She tried to keep her voice quiet, knowing that his hangover was bound to be as bad as hers, but when the agent didn't respond, she raised her voice a little.

"Sands?"

"I don't know why yeh're so –"

"_Sands_??" she demanded in a loud whisper.

Sands opened his eyes only to shut them almost immediately to shield them from the harsh sunlight.

_Oh, shit . . . what did I do last night . . . ? _he thought, eyes practically hissing with pain, which had nothing on the pounding in his head. It was a rare thing for him to suffer from alcohol-induced headaches but the fact that he rarely went out and got totally smashed probably had something to do with that. His eyes fell on the quartet of tall green bottles lined up on the coffee table and he had to fight to suppress a groan.

Everything was spinning horribly, especially his insides. He didn't want to move, that had to make things worse. Maybe if he just laid there and waited for the churning to subside . . .

"Are you all right?" someone asked. Sands could tell they were making sure to keep their voice soft, but even the low tones caused stabs of pain to throb in his head.

Instead of answering, he only nodded but soon stopped. Any kind of motion made his head hurt even more.

Seeing the grim expression on the man's face, Zebbidy was immediately touched with a bout of tenderness that she only received from seeing another in pain. She recognized the agent's symptoms straight away as a hangover – she was surprised she didn't have one herself – but he would recover before the day was up. The headaches and nausea he was undoubtedly feeling were bothersome, but hardly life threatening.

Zebbidy knew she wanted to comfort the man, bring solace to his ailing body, but she also knew that Sands would never accept it. Still, it never hurt to offer advice.

"Here," she said kindly, reaching up and taking his other hand away from his head. "Stay like this. I'm sure you're already aware, but you'll be fine. All you need is sleep."

"Yeah," Sands agreed, his words coming out in taunt gasps. "Yeah, I know . . . just . . . don't move . . . and we'll be peachy."

Smiling sympathetically, Zebbidy released his hand, draping her own arm across his stomach, something Sands found oddly consoling. Without saying a word she laid her head back down on his shoulder, fully intent on going back to sleep. She understood. Thank God. Breathing a sigh of relief, Sands closed his eyes.

**_Oooh . . . I can't believe y –_**

_Shut up, _Sands ordered, dangerously calm as always. _Just shut up. Let me sleep for a couple of undisturbed hours and after that you can taunt me all you want._

He could practically see the voice's evil grin as it cackled maliciously, **_Deal._**

**

* * *

**

The dark glasses hid her face, making her expression even more difficult to read. They also made everything around her a shade darker, but Lynné didn't mind. It was nighttime, and she was wearing her sunglasses. Not the rose pair or the blue pair, the black pair. The ones that were, she sometimes thought, her mask.

It was stupid to be wearing them at night. Lynné knew that. But they gave her a strange air and the title of mystery woman that she secretly relished. A small smirk on her face, she lifted a fork to her lips and sampled a bit of lettuce from her salad.

"Why are you wearing those glasses?"

Taking her dark eyes off of her salad to meet the blue ones of the man in front of her, Lynné felt the corners of her lips twitch very slightly. He had to be quite a few years older than she – mid thirties, perhaps – but at first glance his silvery hair would cause one to assume he was much older.

_But his roots are darker gray, _she noted, taking in his features.

**_Oh I'll bet he dyes it._**

_A man turning his hair gray on purpose? _Lynné looked back up at him again, shifting the gun she had hidden below the table slightly. He didn't look dangerous, unlike Sands or herself, but something in his eyes – always the eyes – told her to keep her guard even higher than normal.

"You know Corey Hart?" she queried. She tapped her sunglasses. "Consider these my ode to him."

_That,_ she added calmly, _or a warning._

He was only there to do one of three things: Strike a deal, jump her guns, or kill her. Lynné had decided on the third option, which had to be the least appealing but it also fit her so-called dinner partner disturbingly well. Lyn, however, was not disturbed in the least.

And even if he _wasn't _intending to kill her he still wasn't going to get anything he wanted. However, it was late. She was tired. And killing him now would mean dragging the body out to her car, chucking him in a dumpster or ditch, and that would be messy. Plus, she wouldn't get to finish her salad. So she had settled for pouring a knockout drug issued by the CIA into both of their drinks – _Thank God for immune systems. _Soon she would be saying au revoir (or perhaps adiós would better fit the scene, this _was_ Mexico after all) once he fell asleep and she'd be outta there. And now, all she had to do was . . . sit back . . . and watch it happen.

"So . . . what do you do for a living?" he asked, acting as though he really did want to know.

Lynné felt her eyebrow go up.

"You abandoned your barstool and what I'm sure was an _incredibly _intriguing conversation with the bartender to ask me what my job is?"

"No," he corrected calmly, "I asked you what you did for a living. I don't care about your job."

_I already know what it is, anyway, _he thought, remembering the profile he had of her on his laptop.

**Beatrice Lynné Sands**

**Age: **25

**Occupation: **Government employee

**Place of Work: **Central Intelligence Agency

**Location: **Cullican, Mexico

Several notes about the woman, all of which he found intriguing, along with several pictures, had followed this information. Those had to be the most interesting to him. In most pictures she had fine, straight, dark brown hair. But in a few others it was different. There was one where she had short, springy, bright, orange curls that made her look like a Little Orphan Annie who had gone through puberty and come out great. Then there was a photo in which she had on a huge blonde wig; real Dolly Parton-esque.

He gazed at her intently. Despite how much he already knew about her, he did not know one thing: Her eye color. They were brown, he knew _that _but he had never seen them. In every picture he had they were hidden behind sunglasses. Some red, some purple, some blue, and many black. But he could never see her eyes clearly, not even now when it was late at night. He wanted to know. Were they light? Dull? Flecked with gold? Dark – almost black, even?

Of course, he could always wait until after he killed her to know but by then the light that always lingers within a person's irises would have long since faded. He wouldn't know their true color if he saw them after she was dead. And so he waited. Sitting their, growing more agitated by the second – he wasn't done with his rounds – he waited for her to show him.

Lynné watched as the man across from her blinked rapidly. He looked as though he was trying to focus but couldn't. A small smile spread on Lyn's face. His blue orbs stared at her in confusion. He leaned back in his chair, slumped a little, and closed his eyes.

Lynné took a sip of her iced tea, dismissed her salad – they just couldn't make 'em to fit her tastes in Mexico – and tucked her gun safely inside her tote. She removed her third arm with ease, and, after stowing it inside her purse as well, rose from her seat. After tossing a wad of bills onto the (surprisingly clean) table, she took one last look at her would-be killer and strode out of the restaurant.

Slipping a person a sleeping drug while they weren't looking wasn't nearly as hard as they made it look in the movies. It was really very easy. _Amazingly_ easy.

_Oh, thank God for immune systems._

**

* * *

**

__

_She sleeps with her eyes open. That's convenient._

She was in bed, her back to him, but he had moved around to better see the woman who he was supposed to kill. She had gotten the better of him. He knew she was CIA and he knew she was clever, but now he knew just how tricky she was. So that meant he would have to be more careful.

There was something about her that set him off. She was different from the other women he'd murdered. He'd been a hit man – though he preferred the name 'assassin' – for . . . wow. Almost three years? That wasn't very long, but looking at the number of people he'd killed . . . wow again. There were a lot. Funny how he'd never really stopped and thought about it before.

_Oh well. Time to tally up another one . . ._

He started to pull out one of his many guns, intent on offing this woman with a bullet to the head and two more to the chest just to make sure she was dead. His trademark, he liked to think.

With a disappointed mental sigh, Lynné withdrew her hand from underneath her pillow and cocked her gun at him. She didn't blink once. Slowly, she eased herself up into a sitting position, making sure to keep the weapon trained on him the entire time. Lyn allowed the thin blankets to slide off of her until they caught at the space between her bent legs and her waist. She cocked her head as if expecting him to explain himself.

"I thought I'd gotten through to you."

"Apparently not," he replied with a grin.

"Does it bother you that you were drugged by a woman? I mean, I know I would be. Especially if she were half my size. It's really gotta be . . . tuggin' on the ol' short and curlies, if ya catch my drift."

"I do, and it isn't," he assured her, still smiling slightly.

"Could you at least tell me why you're killing me?" she sighed looking bored out of her mind.

He looked puzzled.

"You mean you don't know?"

"Ah, no, I can't say that I do," she admitted idly. "Unless . . . you're not here to exact revenge on me, are you? Cuz I've invoked the thirst for vengeance in more people than I can count . . ."

"No," he answered honestly. "Revenge has nothing to do with this. I don't even _know _you, to be perfectly honest. I was just hired to kill you."

"Oh, oh, wait," Lyn said suddenly, holding up her free hand. "The drug lord sent you, didn't he?"

He shook his head, "No."

Now Lynné looked confused. She scowled up at him.

"Barillo didn't send you?"

"Barillo?" he asked, looking surprised. "I'm supposed to kill him."

"Nooo . . . _I'm _supposed to kill him. Or at least put a stop to his operations. My people will handle the whole killing process."

"Ahah . . . No they won't."

"Yes they will."

"Doubt that."

"Oh, I assure you," she said, raising the gun to meet his head, "if they don't, _I _certainly will."

**

* * *

**

__

_What happened to him?_

Even in her own head Lynné could not deny the emotions her thoughts held. What were they? Wondering? Sadness? Hurt?

Why, though? Why was she upset that a man who had been hired to kill her was gone?

**_You don't know that, _**her voice tried to assure her. That had been the strangest thing about her assassin: Both she and the voice had liked him.

**_Well, _I _had liked him. _You _on the other hand . . . you _loved _him._**

_I'm not gonna deny that since you seemed so keen on him too. But still . . . what the hell happened to him?_

After an interesting argument in which she'd somehow wound up on the roof (Lyn thought she had tried to escape that way), her killer had cornered her and they talked. Freaking talked. Chatted the night away like a pair of . . . what? School girls? Teenagers?

**_A lovely young couple, perhaps? _**The voice muttered quietly, so quite that Lynné could barely hear it. She, however, chose to ignore whatever it had to say at the moment.

They had talked. For how long, she didn't know. But it was near morning before they had finally stopped. They had found out a lot about each other. He had already known so much – which was no comfort to Lynné but she had seen stranger – yet he had learned more. More about her personality, she imagined. And she had learned just as much about him as he had her, and she already knew a lot from their brief encounter in the restaurant. After the sun had risen, they had as well. They had reentered the house – he had rolled his eyes that she still didn't trust him but obliged and went through the window first.

They had stood in side her bedroom, him leaning up against the door, her against the wall beside the window. And he hadn't killed her. They hadn't killed each other. He had opened the door, told her he'd see her again, but not to put a bullet in her brain.

And then he'd left.

**_But he was right. You _did _see him again. You saw him a lot._**

****They had planned to leave, after the Barillo cartel had been taken care of, of course, but after that they had wanted to get out of Mexico. Combined, they both had enough cash to erase who they were and start anew in some other country.

**_Far, far away, _**the voice sighed, **_That woulda been nice. No more CIA, no more Mexico, no more cartels . . . Too bad you had to go and get YOUR FUCKING LEG CUT OFF!!!_**

_Yeah, well, whaddaya gonna do?_

_**Have sex with another man? **_it offered and Lynné got the strange feeling that it was 'looking' pointedly at Liam.

_Well, _she murmured coyly, glancing at the sleeping man next to her, _the offer _is _tempting . . ._

**

* * *

**

Sands' limbs were growing stiff. While sleep had evaded him, it hadn't overlooked his arm and shoulder. He wanted to move, but couldn't for that would mean waking Zebbidy. And he didn't want to do that.

**_Why not? _**the voice wondered innocently.

Upon hearing this, Sands let out a weary sigh, _You said you'd leave me alone._

_**Oh, you know I'm never good at keeping promises.**_

****He shifted slightly, not wanting to disturb the sleeping woman at his side, but wanting to relieve himself of the small pinpricks that were coursing through his arm.

As if sensing his dilemma, Zebbidy lowered her body slightly so her head was now resting on his chest instead. At once the pressure in his arm began to subside and Sands finally felt able to fall asleep. The voice, however, had other plans.

**_My, my, _**it observed interestedly. **_Doesn't this look familiar?_**

_What are you getting at now? _he groaned tiredly, sick of the voice and its constant riddles.

**_Her, _**it hinted, **_Ajedrez._**

_Oh Christ . . . _Sands muttered. _I'm ignoring you and going to bed. Goodbye._

_**Fine, **_it said breezily, **_You'll remember sooner or later._**

****As if the voice had pushed a button in his brain, a memory flooded his mind. A memory of he and Ajedrez in a bedroom with the cream colored sheets pulled up around them because they were both wearing nothing but their birthday suits.

He was lying in a bed, Ajedrez at his side, both of them in very much the same position as he and Zebbidy were now. One arm was hidden behind his head and the other he had hung around her waist casually. A slight smile spread across her face, Ajedrez calmly traced little circles on his bare chest with her long fingernails. The sensation made his skin tingle as though a million bugs were crawling along his body, but for some reason he said nothing.

She sat up, her smile still in place, and simply gazed down at him. Her drawing had ceased, much to his relief. Ajedrez must have noticed because she stuck out her lower lip, crushed.

"You didn't like it?" she pouted, secretly furious with him.

"Oh, no, babycakes," he assured her, "_it _was great, I'm just . . . not big on being a canvas for someone's claws."

Her smile widened, now more seductive than ever, and she carelessly began to mark outlines of shapes on his chest, seeming to have ignored everything he had said. Irritated, Sands swung his arm around, gathering both of her wrists in his hands and holding them tightly. With a tight-lipped smirk he warned, "I mean it, honey bunch. Don't do that."

He tossed her hands back to her, grinning coyly when he saw her brow furrow in frustration. Her anger deepening she swooped down on him, so close their faces were only a quarter of an inch apart. She leaned in, as if to kiss him, but instead whispered silkily into his ear,

"I'll do whatever I want."

Slowly, she took his face in her hands, caressing it carelessly and smiling benignly. Sands didn't mind her gentle touch until things got brutal. Fire glowing in her eyes, Ajedrez smiled and sunk her nails into him. Sands gasped involuntarily and moved to throw her off of him but she was too fast. In one swift movement, she had grabbed both of his arms and pinned them to his sides.

He tried to shoot her a furious glare but only managed to narrow his eyes in confusion. Ajedrez's smile was back on as soon as she saw this and she released his hands. Grateful, Sands tried to move but found that he could only flex his fingers. The rest of his body was frozen, as if being held down by unseen restraints.

Suddenly, she attacked. He tried to scream as she ripped and clawed at his face, but his mouth was sealed shut as well. Ajedrez's eyes sparkled as her talons shredded his skin. They were soon coated with flesh and blood but she didn't seem to mind. She would clean them after her job was done. Adrenaline racing through her body, she continued to tear and mangle the agent's visage until only a bloodied mass of scratches remained.

Sitting back to admire her work, Ajedrez listened halfheartedly to Sands' labored breathing. The agent had no idea what was going on, she was sure, and she nearly laughed at his idiocy. She restrained herself, however, when she saw that she wasn't finished yet.

His eyes still remained. Even buried deep within his mangled visage, the dark orbs shown bright with panic and demoralization. That simply would not do. She had to get rid of them.

Absentmindedly wiping her nails on the tainted bed sheets, she stared down at him, the picture of utter fear. Even with all of his cuts and scrapes he was still lovely, she mused. Suddenly livid, Ajedrez flung the blanket back down and launched herself at him, her sharp claws poised and ready.

Seeing what was coming and knowing it would be the last thing he would ever see, Sands felt his eyes widen and suddenly found himself very able to scream.

Sucking in painful gasps of air, Sands' eyes snapped open, terrified at what they had just witnessed.

_Oh my God . . ._ he breathed raggedly, _Oh my Christ . . . what the hell . . . was _that

Finding himself shaking, he tried desperately to get a hold of himself before Zebbidy woke up. _Zebbidy . . ._ _oh shit . . ._

Warily, Sands glanced down at Zebbidy's fingernails. Filed into neat points, the inch-long, expertly polished talons winked in the sunlight. Slowly, he lowered his head back down onto the spongy couch cushions, making a mental note to tell her to cut her nails when she woke up.

* * *

__

_I miss having long nails. ( I had to cut them recently (stupid hangnails XP) so I think that's what inspired this chapter. Plus I noticed there hadn't been many dream sequences lately, especially ones with Ajedrez, so I wanted to fix that. But, dang it, I wanted Zeb's kidnapping in this one! Once again, however, I liked ending the chapter like that. Oy vey . . . guess that means you guys can tally on another chapter to this story, then, heh. Oh, and in case anybody's wondering (or anybody who's seen 'Collateral,' anyway) about Lynné's flashback, yes, that was who you're thinking about. I couldn't resist. u.u_

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**Dawnie-7: **lol, the college story was actually semi-based on a true occurrence. Only difference was it didn't happen at a college and it was a guy who put the stuff on his hands. He had been complaining about his hands being chapped so I gave him this free sample of what I _thought _was lotion. As it turns out . . . it wasn't. XD And, yes, Lynné laughed! O I dunno if that means the world's coming to an end of merely that pig's have learned how to fly. Or maybe it just shows that a little alcohol _can _be a good thing. Captain Jack is a perfect example. u.u

**DragonHunter200: **Thank you! Good to know that the scene was funny since I was really bent on making it entertaining. I've never been much of a Cruise fan myself. Actually, I think I've only see two of his movies, one being '_Collateral_' and the other being '_Interview with a Vampire,_' which I didn't even know he was in until a few days ago. Strange cuz I loved his character (Lestat) so much. Sadly, I got my copy of '_Where the Buffalo Roam_' when my library was giving away books to make room for new ones. I'd tried looking for it on the Internet before but couldn't find it, not even on eBay O Sorry I couldn't be of more help. (

**Lynx Ryder: **Hmm . . . I know what you mean. Zeb doesn't seem to worried about being captured, but remember, she half-thought of the idea. Still, yeah, you'd think she'd be more uptight about it. I think mentally she'd be really worked up about the idea but then, with a little wine in her she'd be fine. And as for Sands not taking care of his eyes . . . (glares pointedly at Sands)

Sands: Doctor Liam's Brother can give me new ones if I fuck these up. u.u

Sidney: (shakes head) _Men. _It's times like these I wonder if I should become a feminine right's activist.

Sands: u.o Don't. Then I'd have to kill you.

**fanfiction fanatic: **Hey, nothing good can ever come from someone who condones in brainwashing the youth of America. O.o Oy vey, I'm gonna stop here before I start going on about government conspiracies again. Thanks for reviewing!

**morph: **lol, obviously she's gonna be nabbed in the one after. Like I said, I wanted to have her kidnapping in this one, but I liked ending this one where I stopped. 9.9;; I'm still working out what's gonna happen while she's at Poisson's. I have many ideas and I'm hoping to fit in all of 'em. )

o


	21. Falling Into Place

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Twenty-One: **Falling Into Place

Oh yeah. This is _definitely _gonna be longer than my last story. And here I was thinking that I didn't have anything to fill the story with and that it'd only be about twelve chapters long (if I was lucky 9.9). But, once again, I was wrong.

Lyn: Oh wow. What a shame. 9.9

**

* * *

**

There they were. His mystery caller (a CIA agent, he found out) and Mademoiselle 'Samhain.' Samhain, Vincent Poisson snorted with distaste. So _that _was what she had taken to calling herself now? Well, it was her mother's maiden name after all, he supposed it was fitting of her. But also such a shame. Her real name was so much nicer than any Irish title.

Vincent watched as the two took chairs on either side of him. He eyed them beadily, not really caring for the either of the Americans. They were, however, he reminded himself, the ones who could make life much easier for him. So he would give them what they wanted. _If_, that is, they held their end of the deal.

"Okay, Poisson," Sands began before they could greet each other, "We kept our end of the bargain, now's when you keep yours. How does your father know about us?"

He watched as the son of a Mafia don took a slow sip of wine. At once, the events of the night before rushed forward to obstruct his mental eye's vision, but he firmly pushed them away.

"Someone informed us of your former whereabouts," Vincent informed him carelessly.

"And do you know who that someone might be?" Sands asked using a voice reserved for young children.

"I do not," he replied placidly. "They have only ever spoken with my father. I do not even know if they are a man or a woman.

"Speaking of women –" he glanced at Zebbidy, who stiffened unconsciously "— one has been a guest in my father's home for some time now."

From across the table, Sands arched an eyebrow.

"She has combined forces with my father, you see," Vincent went on. "From what she told us, her family had been in charge of a growing empire some time ago. He passed away and she, being the only one left, got everything. She did not know what to do with her newfound power, and so she decided to come to us."

"So you're father's business is getting stronger," Sands murmured thoughtfully. "Because of some . . . woman. Would you mind telling me her _name_? Might just be me, but that seems kinda important."

"Rosa Hernandez," he replied simply.

"Spanish decent," the agent mused, raising his eyebrows a fraction and ignoring the curious look Zebbidy was giving him. "And a description."

Vincent nodded, obliging.

"Très belle," he described, slipping into his native French as though no American word could compare. "Long, dark hair and blue eyes."

"Blue?" Sands questioned, intrigued. "That's rare."

"Oui," Vincent agreed.

_Probably colored lenses, _Sands thought. Zebbidy heard, but said nothing. Her thoughts, however, were loud and clear.

_Give me two,_

_Eyes of blue,_

_Softly sayin: 'I need you . . .'_

_Let me see her standin' there and,_

_Honest, mister, I'm a millionaire._

Absentmindedly, she played with the strap of the large purse that was resting on her lap. In it, she had taken everything she thought she might need: Her herbs, crystal, pendants, cell phone, and a various assortment of things a lady might need (just in case). No books (she could use Poisson's library and then the Internet if she was looking for something other than a good read), no make up (Poisson would provide that), no clothes (he would have those for her too). She could take nothing that would lead one to believe her kidnapping had been staged.

_I don't care for any fine attire,  
_

_Vanderbilt might admire._

_No, no, not me._

_All I care about is love . . ._

She and Sands had stopped by the hotel the reinforcements were staying at. She had needed to be bugged before going. Earrings, a broach, and a gaudy necklace that all doubled as cameras had been given to her, as had other pieces of jewelry (bracelets, rings, and more necklaces) that had miniscule microphones installed in them. Her cell was set on vibrate and the only people who had access to her number were Sands and Lynné since they were in charge of the operation. A private e-mail address had been set up as well, though she was only supposed to use that if something interfered with her abilities to use the phone.

_Show me long, raven hair,_

_Flowin' down, 'bout to there._

_Let me see her runnin' free, and,_

_Keep your money, that's enough for me._

Involuntarily, she ran her finger along the length of silk ribbon she had tied around her neck. Big mistake. Vincent Poisson noticed. Of course, he would know why she always wore a choker, and if not that, a turtleneck shirt. His eyes lingered on her but only for a second. Sands took no notice, probably thinking that Vincent was merely glancing at the young woman he would be taking home with him.

_I don't care for drivin' Packard cars,_

_Or smoking Long Buck Cigars._

_No, no, not me._

"Dark hair, blue eyes . . ." Sands counted off, flicking out a finger each time. "Anything else?"

"Non," Vincent answered seriously. "I would tell you if there were, believe me."

Sands smiled – a short thinning of the lips and nothing more – and curled his fingers back.

"Let's not be too hasty there, Vince."

All I care about is . . .

_Doin' the guy in,_

_Who's pickin, on you._

"Well, if that's all there is . . . you ready?" Sands asked, acknowledging Zebbidy.

"Hmm? Oh. Yeah," she replied distantly. Lifting her purse (it was really more of a bag) and slinging it over her shoulder, she rose from her seat. Sands remained seated, but he lifted his head, following her as she stood. For one brief moment their eyes met. Hers, vibrant and bright; his, dark and intense.

Suddenly, Zebbidy had the crazy thought that Sands was actually going to offer some consonance. That he was going to assure her that everything would be all right, that nothing would happen to her. _Stupid, _she thought blandly. Sands was the type of guy who wouldn't lie to a person. He may stretch or tamper with the truth a bit or manipulate someone to get what _he _wanted, but he wouldn't lie. Telling the truth got more of a shock out of a person. Besides, somehow, the lies a person told always found a way to come back and bite them in the ass.

_Twistin' the wrist,_

_That's turnin' the screw ._ . .

She gazed at him intently for she didn't know how long with a barely-there smile.

"So I guess I'll see ya around then?" Zebbidy asked, feeling oddly drained.

Sands flashed her a quick grin – again, a mere thinning of the lips – but something in it made her wonder. Was that actual emotion she had seen . . . ? No. She was being stupid again. Probably still partially out of it, too. After all, she'd had the most to drink out of anybody last night.

"Possibly," he replied before taking a swig of the complimentary glass of water.

No, Zebbidy decided, Agent Sands was definitely not one to offer comfort to a person. Especially not to her, a near-stranger.

_All I care about. . . is love . . ._

**

* * *

**

He had watched her leave.

Auburn tresses fell down to the middle of her back, swinging teasingly against the forest green of her jacket. For once her hair was down, Sands noticed meditatively. He wondered why the sudden change, but not for long. The risk that an ambush had been planned was still present so he had needed to keep focused until he was back at the house. Even then he could not let his guard down entirely.

He had felt the tug of annoyance when Vincent Poisson had slipped his arm around her shoulders, though he was sure it was for Zebbidy's sake alone. Sands knew _she _hadn't cared for the mobster and that she would care even less for the man if he started getting all touchy-feely with her.

**_And what about you?_**

_What about _meSands inquired resentfully.

**_Wellll . . . _**the voice drawled, **_You _did _sleep with her –_**

****Fell _asleep, on the couch, with her –_

_**Still, **_it went on, acting as though it hadn't heard him, **_you slept with her. And you could have prevented that. You could have let her fall last night –_**

_I already let her down once, if ya know what I'm sayin.' Can't exactly let that happen again if I wanna keep my job._

_**You didn't have to lay her down next to you.**_

_Call it looking out for her. I had the girl's best interests at heart._

**_You could have moved, _**the voice said, now nothing more than a low murmur. **_There were plenty of opportunities._**

Putting the voice and whatever repetitive messages it might have had on hold, Sands let his mind wander. To the passersby he would simply looked as though he was staring off into space, seemingly lost in thought, while in truth, however, both his eyes and his mind were very focused.

Seeing Zebbidy off, he guessed he could have called it, had been done for him and him alone. After all, the Company wouldn't exactly jump for joy when he came home early having fucked up another mission. Uptight pricks. So he had made sure to watch Zebbidy leave, his hand brushing against the side of his gun, just itching for a reason to use it, the entire time.

It wasn't like there was any actual _need _for it. Zebbidy was a grown woman of . . . how old? Thirty-one. Albeit, Sands still didn't believe that was her real age. Still, no matter old she was, he knew she was fully capable of taking out apish thugs with bulging muscles, and Vincent Poisson didn't seem like much of a threat outside of the guards and guns and power.

_Pansy_.

So there really hadn't been a need to play lookout. If something had gone wrong, Zebbidy could have managed just fine on her own and he might not have even needed to worry about it. Watching out for her was simply a way of warped watching out for his _own _ass. Nothing more.

But, still . . .

He had watched her leave.

**

* * *

**

"Mademoiselle, je ne crois pas que le Grand-père prendra le retour de Mademoiselle Zebbidy's bien." (Miss, I don't think Grandfather will take Miss Zebbidy's return well.)

"What makes you think that, Josey," Lynné sighed rather than asked. She didn't really give a flying fuck _what _the kid thought. She didn't give so much, in fact, that she didn't bother to turn away from her computer. Not that Joséphine would have known.

"Grand-père a toujours une façon de savoir des choses. Il est très . . ." (Grandfather always has a way of knowing things. He is very . . .) She searched for the right word, one that hadn't added itself to her already incredible vocabulary yet.

"Suspicious?" Lyn offered, still not taking her eyes away from the glaring white screen. _Fucking AOL . . . I _knew _I should've taken MSN's offer when I had the chance._

"Oui, méfiant! C'est tout!" (Yes, suspicious! That's it!) Joséphine cried happily. Lynné felt the corner of her mouth twitch ver slightly but she shoved it away with a shake of the head.

"It wouldn't exactly make any sense if he weren't suspicious," she told the girl. "Someone with that much power is kinda obligated to at least a small bit of paranoia."

"Oui," the child sighed, "Je suppose qu'a du sens. Mais Grand-père est . . ." (I suppose that makes sense. But Grandfather's . . .)

"Suspicions -- soupçons," Lynné clarified.

"Soupçons," (Suspicions,) Joséphine tested. "Ils sont très grands. Il ne se fie à personne!" (They are very great. He doesn't trust anybody!)

"Well neither do I, kid," Lyn said tonelessly while giving off an obvious air. "Which is why you shouldn't freak out about this."

"Que?" the girl asked, confused at the American's strange, foreign wording.

"Panique," Lynné translated offhandedly.

"Oh," Joséphine realized, tucking the phrase away into mental storage. "Mais . . . qui signifie-t-il . . . vous ne vous fiez pas à moi?" (But . . . does that mean . . . you don't trust me?)

Lynné shrugged, knowing that Josey could not see the action.

"Ne sais pas."

Faint clicks told Joséphine that the woman had returned to her typing. Since she had lost her sight, she had learned to depend on her hearing to get her through the long, dark days. She was never sure which would be worse: Having known the world but then being robbed of your sight and knowing that you would never see anything again, or being born without it and expected to get through life when everything around you was a complete mystery. Joséphine wasn't sure.

"Qui est plus mauvais?" (Which is worse?) she asked Lynné suddenly.

"What d'you mean?" the agent returned, her eyes flickering momentarily in the little girl's direction. Slowly, as if unsure if the woman would understand, Joséphine explained her problem. There was nothing particularly difficult about the question. It wasn't one of those math questions that _had _to be unsolvable or a trick history question. Yet something about it made it hard to answer. It was more of a decision, she had determined long ago, one that depended on a person's opinion. She understood that, but would la mademoiselle?

"Well," Lynné began steadily, staring down at her hands, "I read somewhere . . . that the thing about the unknown is . . . you never know what's out there. Therefore . . . you don't know what you're missing."

(So . . .) Joséphine murmured, running this through her head. (You're missing out on everything.)

Lynné gave a dry, hollow laugh that could have been considered a snort, "Are you really missing out if you don't know?"

"May I ask," Lynné began in an almost distracted sort of way, "why is it . . . you _understand _English, and yet you never speak it?"

The pale shoulders of Joséphine's lavender colored shirt moved up and down as she shrugged, looking utterly careless.

"Vhy donn-t you speak French?"

**

* * *

**

__

_I hate this dress_, Zebbidy thought bitterly as she slowly descended one of the many staircases in the Poisson mansion. She had been right; Édouard had provided all of the clothing she needed. Her new outfits were beautiful, but she hated them nonetheless. They were cold, she reflected, thinking of her closet full of blues, and purples, and blacks. She liked all of those colors but every now and then a nice yellow or green was a nice change. Red was lovely too. Very warm and inviting.

_That explains why Édouard doesn't have anything that color, _she snorted irritably. _I'm gonna trip down these stairs . . . Stupid dress. _With a fearful glance at the slick marble before her, Zebbidy took a breath and continued onward towards the dinning room.

Why had she chosen such a horrible gown? There wasn't much of a variety, despite her vast amount of closet space she had recently obtained. All of the clothes were decidedly dark in color, each showing just the right amount of skin – Poisson didn't want his women to look like common streetwalkers -- and they were all rather form-fitting. Zebbidy shook her head, glaring down at the slinky, black, low-cut dress she was now wearing.

_At least it goes to the floor_, she thought fairly. _Ah, wait. Forget that. I'm gonna break my neck going down the stairs in this thing . . ._

Reverting back to one of her age-old nervous ticks, she distractedly caressed the smooth black silk of her choker, pausing a bit when her finger ran over a small lump in the material. The opal, she remembered, thinking somewhat fondly of the sparkling, milky white stone. Sands had given it to her – not as a gift, but protection. Hidden within the multicolored jewel was a tiny camera, nearly microscopic and completely undetectable unless one was to look for it. She had shimmering opal earrings to match the necklace that wound around her throat. The two were alike in more sense than one; the studs in her ears were not just for decoration. They were microphones.

Vincent had taken all of her spy equipment on the drive over. "Father will be sure to check you," he had explained, stowing her jewelry away in his coat pockets. "If he finds anything, you, that agent, as well as anyone else who is involved will be eliminated."

"I know, I know," Zebbidy had sighed, letting herself sink into the soft, velvet cushions of the limousine. She supposed she should be thankful for Vincent's insight. But that did not stop her from filling her mind with thoughts of what was to come. A million things could happen, a million things could go wrong, and yet she was not worried.

Well, perhaps that was an understatement. When dealing with Mafia men (especially ones who were out for blood) one tended to be a little concerned for their well being. But Zebbidy thought she would have – _should _have been more perturbed by what she was about to undergo. She would be under so much strain soon, her brain would become incredibly stressed, the dreams would come flying back at her, hitting painfully her in the face.

_At least I won't have nightmares about _him _anymore, _she reasoned. _That'll be a relief._

Somehow this thought did not put her at ease. Sighing, Zebbidy continued down the ornate hallways, glancing every so often at a lavish painting from Italy or an extravagant statue depicting one of the gods of ancient Greece perfectly. Well, almost perfectly.

_Oh, this one must be a mistake, _she thought, gazing intently at the minute figure of a woman draped in a toga with a winged helmet covering her long curls. Vicious spear in hand, the goddess wore a fierce smile, looking every bit the warrior she was.

_Yet why is it named Bellona when it's clearly Athena? And Bellona was Roman, not Greek. Hope there aren't any more misprints like this, or I'm gonna have a word with Édouard about his sculptors._

She had already had a word with Édouard, though. Several words, in fact. He had been somewhat warm when she had been taken to his office, but he seemed much more stern in Zebbidy's opinion. He had welcomed her formally, acting as though she was an elegant young lady not someone whose head he was after.

Édouard had called for two servants (_More like security goons, _Zebbidy had thought) to escort her to her sleeping chamber and then give her a tour of his house if she wished.

_House!? _she wanted to screech incredulously. _How can he call this a house!? This is your, what? Sixth? Seventh!? Tell me, how much cash was spent to buy this one? About three, four million? Pretty good price, considering you only use it twice a year. But how much of your money was _worked _for? NONE! And if you start that 'worked hard to get where I am today' shit, because you've been peddling that story for as long as I can remember and I _still _ain't buyin' it._

She had said none of this out loud though, not even when she was in the privacy of her own room. For in the house of a Mafia don, there was no privacy.

Despite her frazzled nerves, Zebbidy was not completely unhinged. Not yet. She strode into the dinning hall with determined confidence even if it _did_ make her appear a bit snobby. She couldn't help that, and the fact that her nose turned slightly upward wasn't her fault.

Édouard Poisson stood as she entered the room. His sons stood as well, though Zebbidy suspected it was their training kicking in and not good manners. Alphonse and Vincent, as well as everyone else in the Poisson dynasty, had been schooled in the art of proper etiquette all their lives. They were only standing because they had been ordered to, Zebbidy knew, _not _because they were gentlemen.

A bit of warmth and just a hint of foulness were what created the smile that Poisson wore when he looked at Zebbidy, surveying her slender form and comely appearance, wondering if she would be as useful he expected – as he had always expected. She had to be. He would not be refused. Not even by the defiant pinup in front of him. His smile widening, he expanded his arms in a grand gesture, motioning for his 'guest' to sit.

"Ma chère Zebbidy," he purred graciously, "You look simply magnifique tonight. It is a delight in my eyes to have you join us this evening."

_Not like I had much choice. And it's _Zebbidyshe sneered resentfully. _Not Zee-beh-day. Zeb-ih-dee._

But she kept these thoughts to herself. Returning the kind words with a wan smile of her own, Zebbidy slid into a chair beside Alphonse, and allowed her nerves to relax a little. She had gotten through one meeting with Édouard already, now if she could only make it out of this one, then there would only be . . . how many more? She didn't know. None of them did. Not her, not Sands, not Poisson.

Zebbidy sighed, stabbing a piece of her Cabillaud à la Grecque but not really eating it. Somehow she wasn't in the mood for fish that night. She wasn't in the mood for meat of any kind. But at least the French had a thing for light foods. And if Poisson could not or simply refused to acquire the meals she desired, then she supposed she could just live off of breads and vegetables until everything was all over. She could deal with that. She had dealt with one of the most powerful men in France after all. A little adjustment in her diet should be nothing.

Heaving yet another internal sigh, Zebbidy stared down at her plate, trying not to look too miserable. Unconsciously, she reached up and began tracing her necklace, sighing again when she realized what she was doing. Oh well, she murmured blandly. She could be performing a more irksome action. Poisson glanced in her direction, noticing what she was doing, but he didn't seem annoyed. And if he was, Zebbidy decided, then he should be grateful.

At least her nose wasn't twitching.

* * *

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_Hmm . . . I dunno if I like how this chapter played out or not. (shrug) Moving on, the next chapter may be a bit late seeing how I won't have a lot of time to write this weekend, what with playing host to a bunch of teenage girls and all. Well, seventeenth birthdays have to happen sometime, don't they? Even if mine is a little late. (glare) I blame Labor Day weekends._

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses**

**Dawnie-7: **Aww, glad you liked it. I'm gonna try and get Vincent in another scene (I have plans, mwahaha . . .) But, anyway . . . Keith Richards! Yeah, I finally got around to putting that in. I thought to put in after the wine scene, it just took a while. Didn't realize how far apart Lynné's mention of Sands' Rolling Stones dreams and Sands actually _having _one of said dreams was. o.o

**Lynx Ryder: **Geh, yeah, the dream was . . . icky. But I wanted to get another scene with Ajedrez in there somewhere. O.o I actually _wanted _her in my story? (abruptly changes the subject) Yes, Lynné had a lover (oy vey, that sounds just as strange as wanting Ajedrez in my fic) If you haven't seen the movie '_Collateral_' (hopefully still in theaters in your area), then things may be a little confusing, but hopefully not. And, there, did ya hear her, Sands?

Sands: 9.9 I already explained my solution if and when I go blind again.

Sidney: (warily) You make that sound like you _are _gonna go blind again. -.e

Sands: (shrug) Eh, y'never know.

**fanfiction fanatic: **lol, yeah, let's not. Though I'm still just waiting for the day the feds. Come and dispose of me because my theories were too close to the truth. Not saying they are, but there are always possibilities. So remember, if I mysteriously disappear, you know what happened.

**DragonHunter200: **Oh, good, cuz like I said I loved ending the last chapter that way. D And Sands' dream kept your interest in a rather gory way. (relieved) I have succeeded in my goal then. u.u o.o! I _thought _Antonio was in that movie! And I have yet to read '_The Rum Diary_.' Still hafta find a copy. /

o


	22. Hear Me Now?

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Twenty-Two: **Hear Me Now?

Ohh no . . . (wrings hands nervously) I have absolutely _no _ideas planned for this chapter. Geh! (wince) This is really annoying cuz I know exactly what's gonna happen during and after Poisson's big shindig (heheh, I like that word D) but, and I think I said this earlier, I don't know what I'm gonna do _before _Poisson's party. I'm not sure if I just want _this _chapter or if I wanna divide it into two separate ones. Hmm . . . I'm not sure. Guess I'll just . . . trying and think of something for this chapter and see where I can go from there. Wish me luck! I'm goin' off on a limb here, guys, and that is definitely something new for me.

**

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**

Poisson never called her anything other than Zee-beh-day, sometimes Mademoiselle Samhain, and of course the occasional mademoiselle when he felt that adding her last name would be too ornamental.

This was one thing Zebbidy was grateful for.

Scratch that.

It was the _only _thing she was grateful for.

If Poisson had called her anything other than those three names Zebbidy's stress level would have risen considerably. Any other name might provoke suspicions in the CIA and that would lead to questions, questions she was not – and perhaps would never be – ready to answer.

There were several things about Édouard Poisson – aside from his constant mispronunciation of her name – that Zebbidy could not – no – flat out refused to stand. Inwardly. She may have had a short fuse, but she had learned to use it only when anger was an extreme necessity.

She restrained herself from firing harsh insults at him whenever he chose to voice some rude comment about her family, but only because she wanted to keep him ignorant. As a child, she would have used her words against him without even imagining a possible consequence. She had been punished severely each time. Not that that had left any lingering affects on her mind.

However, Zebbidy stuck it through, offering a small nod or the occasional weak smile whenever Poisson cut her up. She would always respond somehow, however, because silence would never lead to anything good. If a person failed to respond to something Édouard Poisson had directed towards them, then their fate was sealed.

But her frustrations with the mob leader were beginning to grow, getting ever stronger as time dragged on. She had been there for two days and had yet to serve a purpose.

_I knew he wasn't going to kill me. He _wants _me for something. But what the hell is it??_

_Oh, hell, _she sighed irritably, _I thought he would have realized by now that I cannot tell him what he wants. It doesn't _work _like that._

Zebbidy turned over embracing the warm satin sheets that cocooned her body. As much as she hated Poisson for flaunting his wealth, she couldn't deny it: The man had taste. Her bedroom alone was gorgeous, comprised of rich, luscious hues: Starlets, maroons, creams, and purples.

_Gods, how much did he cough up to pay for this? _she thought spitefully. Suddenly, Zebbidy sighed into one of her many plush cream and scarlet colored pillows. _Least he didn't give me my old room. Then again, I've never been to this house – don't think he even owned it when I was younger . . ._

Poisson had not seen her for many years. He may have thought that he was up to date on her present behavior, and he would be correct. Which was why Zebbidy forced herself to play the part of the timid, fragile woman who acted so very afraid of a reaction she refused to stick up for herself, even when her good name was being slandered right before her bottle-green eyes.

_Ignorance is bliss, _she reminded herself drowsily. _For me, at least . . ._

The seconds slipped by and Zebbidy slowly felt herself being encased in not just the wonderful blankets surrounding her, but sleep as well. So it had finally decided to show up, she mused with contented sleepiness. But did that mean that nightmares would follow?

_Ah fuck it, _Zebbidy decided tiredly, throwing the idea away as quickly as it had come. _What's another night of lost sleep?_

She pulled a pillow over her head, blocking out all light and most sound, willing sleep to come to her.

And then, something near her right foot moved.

**

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**

__

_Come on . . . I know you're there._

_**She probably can't hear you.**_

_Oh, she can, _Sands assured the voice. _Believe me. She can. She just doesn't _want _to._

Impatiently, he glanced at the trio of miniature TVs Catherine's fleet of agents had set up. One was a view of Poisson's mansion from Zebbidy's opal choker, a second was from the tie pin they had given Vincent to wear, and then the final television allowed them to see the world through Zebbidy's eyes, in a sense. It was the TV connected to her camera-glasses. Those must have been laying on a nightstand because at that moment Sands had a clear image of . . . Zebbidy's chest. The camera did not show her lower body at all, and a large, squishy pillow hid her arms, neck, and head.

**_Don't see why you're so intent on talking to her. We've got a great view from here._**

_What the fuck are you talking about? _Sands asked incredulously. _She's lying on her front – the view sucks. If she was on her _back_, I might agree with you._

_**I was merely hinting that she **_**might _decide to change _positions _if you would just _wait a while.**

_Tempting as that suggestion is, _Sands drawled, eyes still focused on the third TV, _I don't have _time_ to wait._

_**Spoil sport – oh. I think I see some life.**_

****On the television, Zebbidy was tearing her bed apart, digging through the blankets, throwing them aside when she failed to find what had to be her cell phone. Pillows soon rained around her as she gave up on the blankets and began searching under the cushions instead.

**_Aggressive little thing, isn't she? _**murmured the voice.

_She must've taken it to bed with her, _Sands weighed thoughtfully. _That way she'd feel it if she got a call. Smart girl._

He watched in amusement for a while, shaking his head as another bolster flew through the air, adding itself to the small collection of cushions that were already mounting on the floor. At last, he saw Zebbidy hold up a small, silver, violently quivering rectangle in success, a tired grin stretched across her fair face.

"Hello?" a drained voice said, its words coming out with a slight metallic tint due to the soft static of the phone.

"'Bout time you picked up, chère."

Hearing Zebbidy sigh brought a smile to Sands' face, but only briefly. He had business to tend to, and standing around provoking others for his own entertainment was _not_ the way to get things done.

"Three _days_," Zebbidy confided, her tone quavering from urgency and distress. "It's been nearly three days and he hasn't told me anything."

"Which is why we need you to encourage him, sugar-butt," Sands cut in. "Not a lot and don't be straight with him. Just . . . prompt him a bit."

"He barely trusts me." The tone of her voice told Sands that she clearly thought him crazy.

**_Mostly because you are._**

****"It's not as hard as you think, Zeb," he assured her, reverting back to his slow, bored drawl. "And if it is, then you have to do it anyway. I'd do it or con Lynné into doing it, but seeing how he's after our heads . . ."

"I know, I know," she muttered distractedly. On the television, Sands could see her running her pulling on an auburn stress in frustration. Her hair was down again. Nice.

"Just get into his head, miel," Sands instructed. "It's not as hard as ya thi – well, no. It really _is _rather difficult. I just make it _look_ easy."

"How comforting. Tell me, did you ever consider becoming a school psychologist?" Zebbidy retorted coolly.

_And I would have gotten into Édouard's head earlier had he not scrambled his goddamn _thoughts, Zebbidy fumed angrily, not paying attention to Sands' answer. _He always does that! Just like you . . . _she directed at Sands, knowing he could not hear her.

_And even if he could, it doesn't work over phones. The person has to be in the same damn room._

"Is there any chance of your meeting him tomorrow? Privately?" Sands was inquiring when Zebbidy decided to tune back into the conversation.

"I couldn't tell you," she replied honestly. "He's always busy – meetings and things – so I don't always get a chance to catch him alone."

"Zeb," the agent sighed wearily, "You've only been with the man for three days. As rich as he is, I'm sure he can afford to take a break to talk to the woman he so desperately wanted to get his hands on."

_No he doesn't, _Zebbidy hissed mentally. _He knows I'm here and that I'm not going to leave, therefore he's _not _going to want me around until he finds some sort of task for me. Then we'll go through the usual debate: 'It doesn't _work _like that. I can't just See the things you demand of me,' which is followed by his yelling and screaming – fucking tyrant – and eventually leads to me making things up again._

"Mmm," was her spoken response. "Yeah, I suppose that makes sense. After all, I'd like to know what he intends to do with me if he isn't out for murder. . . . We're sure he isn't, right?" she asked after a moment. "Vincent said the attacks were mistakes on the assassin's parts."

"We're sure, Zeb, we're sure," Sands informed her in a voice made to sound like he couldn't give two fucks if Poisson wound up offing her or not.

"But if he is – "

"He's _not._"

"But if he _is_," Zebbidy continued with light, measured calm, "you _will _get me out of here, won't you? Or you'll at least send someone to do it."

_Where the fuck does she think she's going with this??_ Sands wondered with more worry than he would have liked. _Of course I'd go and get her._

_**You will **_**not, **sneered the voice. **_You'll send someone _else_ to fetch her._**

_But still, _he protested, _I'm not gonna leave her there._

_**Oh? **_the voice queried, feigning innocence. **_Why not?_**

****Sands sighed tiredly, _Must I go over this again? If her ass goes, so does mine. If something happens to her, something happens to me. If she dies, so does my career. And then what the fuck do I do? Can't exactly restore the balance when the CIA has taken your fucking license to kill. Therefore, I've got to keep Miss Samhain healthy and whole until this entire mess is over with. After that, I don't give a fuck what happens to her unless is involves _me.

**_Riiiight, _**the voice agreed dryly. **_You keep tellin' yourself that._**

**

* * *

**

"I'm _saying_ we don't know what he wants. That's what we're trying to find out."

"With your record, I would've expected this to have been over and done with _months _ago," Catherine snapped, narrowing her inky colored eyes suspiciously, her sharp face pinched with vexation. "_Especially _after finishing up in Williamsburg so quickly."

"Some cases take more time than others," Liam cut in, coming to his partner's aid. His help was only rewarded with two narrowed sets of eyes, one slit with confusion, the other with anger. Agent Catherine Johnson, older stepsister of Agent Lynné Sands, was telling him to butt out with her eyes alone. His partner was giving him a similar message: 'I don't need your help. _How_ many times have I told you that?'

Biting his lip nervously, Liam backed away from both women and didn't stop until he was safe, out of their vengeful reach. Their eyes still sharp with ferocity, Lynné and Cat turned back to their argument, both wearing faces of unfathomable hatred.

"Why aren't you finished here?" Catherine demanded, her teeth gritted to the point of cracking.

"Gee, Cat . . . I'm awful sorry, but my psychic friend has yet to get back to me on that one. When she _does _gives me a ring, I'll let ya know, but until then . . . your guess is as good as mine."

_Well, not _as _good, _Liam found himself thinking almost fondly.

"No screwing around, Lynné," the bony agent warned menacingly, her lips turned in a horrible moue.

_Aha . . . hahaaa . . . _her stepsister laughed weakly to herself. _Think it's a little late for that, Catherine._

Thinking she was being mocked, once again left out of something, Cat was close to the point of actually hissing, "_I mean it_! Lynné, I'm getting orders from the Company saying that if you don't wrap things up here –"

"They should really give acting lessons at the CIA," Lyn interrupted, considering something completely off topic. "They'd come in handy if you need to convince someone that you're with them, goad a person into siding with you, or even lie to one of your fellow agents."

She smiled, cold, quick, and effortless.

"Now to those who are not as skeptical and mistrustful as myself, you're . . . performance . . . may have seemed believable. However, there are a few who just _aren't _gonna buy it. So next time you try to sell your story, I suggest you either try harder, or don't bother at all."

"Either way, Lynné'll know if you aren't being truthful," Liam spoke up, not liking his place in the background and not liking Agent Johnson at all.

In response, Catherine perused her fellow agent through beady eyes before spitting out harshly, "I'm aware."

Lynné, albeit briefly, smirked at the other woman's frustration.

"Good to know. But as far as Poisson goes, we're _not _sure of his plans for Zebbidy Samhain, however, my darling brother is working on that as we have this little . . . chat."

"So he's going to find out why –"

"He's going to try and get some answers," Lynné corrected. "Are we done here?"

Her stepsister only nodded sharply. Turning to a large oak desk, her back to the two agents, she began shuffling through several documents all bearing the label '**CONFIDENTIAL**.' Suddenly, her head snapped back up as if she had just remembered something.

"There was one more thing," Catherine began, slowly returning a file to its place. "This Rosa Hernandez . . ."

"You didn't dig up anything on her?" Liam questioned, surprised.

"There's some information," she replied as she examined another classified document. "It's all very typical, however. Height, weight, mother, father, age, DOB . . . Also, we couldn't find a picture."

"She's never showed up on any of our cameras either," Lynné murmured distantly. "Sands still on the phone?"

**

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**

"God, the way those two go at each other . . ." Liam shook his head in wonderment. "By the way she talked, I knew your sister wasn't Agent Johnson's biggest fan but I never knew . . ."

"I didn't hear any yelling," Sands said, giving the other agent a puzzled look.

"Well, there wasn't any," Liam explained matter-of-factly, absentmindedly taking in the peach and forest green colored hallway. _Just a _bit _on the tacky side._

"Oh, well, when you say 'go at each other' and are referring to Lyn, that usually involves yelling. But since there _wasn't_ any . . . what you should have said was 'let into each other.'"

"There's a difference?" Liam asked, quirking a brow.

"I already told you what 'going at' means, however, I admittedly failed to define the meaning of 'letting into.'" For a few short seconds a taunt smirk appeared on his face, but it soon disappeared without a trace, replaced by the look of apathy Liam was so accustomed to. "You know how much I hate to leave people in the dark, Fusco, so I'll explain.

"The two may sound like the same thing, and, when dealing with someone else, they usually are -"

"But we aren't dealing with someone else," Liam interjected, watching Sands as he took out a lighter and a small cigar. "We're dealing with Lynné."

Mouth forming into a smile around the cigarette, Sands continued, "Nice to hear you're finally catching on to things, Fusco. But, yes, things are _always _different when dealing with my sister. For instance, 'going at' someone for Lyn means she is doing most of the talking while someone else sits and fumes at everything she has to say."

The tip of his cigarette glowed as he flicked his lighter closed and slipped it into his coat pocket.

"'Letting into' however, is more along the lines of your previous mistake. My sister actually hauling off and yelling at someone is rare – not to say that it's never happened before.

"But when Lynné lets into someone," Sands continued, "she lets into someone. Physical or not, she will fly off the handle, and believe me, you don't wanna be in the way when she comes hurling in your direction."

"Right," Liam noted gravely, remembering a time not long after Lynné's run-in with the Barillo cartel. He had thought she was going to kill him that day. The way she had been screaming and ranting on endlessly about so many things: the sudden loss of her leg, of course, not to mention being betrayed by her own agency, who had left her to rot in the scorching Mexican sun . . . Taking this into consideration, Liam was _very _surprised to be alive. His partner had vented out her anger on other things as well, throwing strange topics into the mix that Liam had never taken the time to work out the meaning to.

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"When do you plan on telling her?" Vincent inquired casually from his seat on one of two stiff-backed couches flanking either side of his father's office. He glanced up from his book – '_Candide_' by his role model Voltaire – to see if his father would meet his eyes. He didn't.

"Patience, mon fils," Édouard instructed with registered calm, sifting through several files that lay upon his massive desk. "There is no need to rush things. Besides, knowing Mademoiselle . . . Samhain . . . as well as I do, I am sure she already knows why she is here."

"And still alive," his son added in an undertone.

From behind the titanic piece of furniture Édouard let an evil leer escape. It slowly spread across his face, revieling two gaps where he was missing two teeth. He had lost them during a fistfight in his youth, and, even though the large spaces were ugly – some could even call them disfiguring – he held some kind of pride for them. Unlike his sons, he thought malevolently

"Oui," the Mafia leader answered aloud, giving no trace of his deep disgust for his son, "Though I doubt she ever thought I'd have her killed. She knows how valuable she is."

Staring out of the large window that was mounted behind his father Vincent added, "She is a liability.

"What about Mademoiselle Hernandez?" he asked suddenly, looking interested.

His father's head snapped up from the papers that lay strewn about his desk. Automatically on the alert, Édouard raised an eyebrow with questioning suspicion.

"What about her?"

"She has requested a meeting with you," Vincent answered, a note of anxiety amid the cool in his voice. "The soonest date possible. I was just wondering if you favored the idea of . . . introducing her to our guest."

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_Ohhhh . . . I apologize. I originally had this chapter finished on Wednesday. However, due to my near obsessive compulsive behavior, I wanted to keep things organized (and I'm dealing with two of the most confusing characters I've come to know 9.9;) so I waited until Friday to post. (shrug) I wanted to keep on schedule, even though I don't think I've ever stuck to a schedule in my entire life._

Sands: Until now. u.o

Sidney: (blinks) o.o . . . heeey . . . he's right!

Sands: Of course. 9.9

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**Dawnie-7: **Oh, good. ) I was beginning to wonder if this was getting boring, what with the lack of action and all. Although, I'm gonna say in about . . . two chapters, the quiet scene everyone's in now is gonna be rocked. Hard.

Sands: (being a perv. as usual) Oooh, do you mean –

Sidney: _No_. -.9;;

**morph: **Yep, the mics and cameras transmit whatever they pick up to Sands and the other agents. That way, if Poisson or anybody lets some important info slip, they'll know about it. Also, (whacks Sands upside the head) What have I told you about doing that!?

Sands: (ducks her hand, irritated) -.9;; Doing _what_?

Sidney: Hinting!

Sands: Hinting? e.e

Sidney: _Hinting_. If you keep spilling your goddamn guts, people are gonna –

Sands: 9.9 No they're _not_. And if they do, say they're jumping to conclusions.

Sidney: And if they aren't?

Sands: Then you simply _deny _it. S'not hard, honey bunch.

Sidney: -.e

**Lynx Ryder: **I'm not a big Tom Cruise fan either, though I thought '_Collateral_' looked like it would be a good story, despite who was acting in it. Plus, like I said earlier, while watching the previews I couldn't help but think that Cruise's character, Vincent, seemed a lot like the charming Agent Sands. '_Chicago_!' D I love that movie! Or is it a musical? Musical-turned-movie? Yeah. Anyway, I loved it, so it's nice to see somebody recognized a song from it (especially when I forgot to put a disclaimer for it at the end of the last chapter 9.9') Originally, I had wanted to have Zebbidy relating nearly everything to a song (it's true to her original character), but that idea kinda slipped right around the time Sands had the dream about Ajedrez burning his eyes out with a cigarette. I've said before, I really think she's the only one who isn't in character, but, then again, save for about five people, nobody really _knows _her actual character, so I suppose that's all right. Nah, I don't think it's evil to wish dreams upon people. I always like reading stories that have dreams and flashbacks in them as well, hence why in my fics every other chapter contains one, lol. (snickers at the comment about not seeing Zeb anymore) Too true, too true . . .

**The Gilatas Monster: **I'm making a lot of a references to Alex in these stories, I think. And, yes, everyone's favorite sociopathic hit man – sorry, assassin will return again. Come on, I couldn't give him just one cameo, could I?

**DragonHunter200: **Geh! AOL! Pure evil, most definitely. They're the ones responsible for my lack of Internet during the course of five months last year. Which is why I'm so glad I switched to MSN. Aww, it's so nice to hear I've created someone you like as much as Sands. I too noticed Liam's lack of appearance during the last three chapters. Needed to do something about that, of course, so he's back. And he'll be in the next chapter quite a bit. ) It's not that I'm unexcited by my seventeenth birthday (thanks for the greeting, btw), I just had a lot on my mind last week and suddenly my mom shows up saying that she thought it'd be nice to do something for my seventeenth. O.o She tends to do that. When's '_The Rum Diary_' being released, by the way? I heard Johnny Depp is gonna be in it, but so far, nothing else.

**fanfiction fanatic: **lol, accursed government – damn them! That new movie '_The Forgotten,_' the way the people just up and disappear without a trace makes me think that the ones behind it are with the government. Haven't seen the movie, though, so I could be wrong.

_Yay! 100 reviews! Well, actually it's more like 101, but 100 had to come first, so, yay! Oh, wow, I never imagined I'd get that many comments. Just wanna say thanks, guys. I know I've said it before, but I really appreciate your comments. If I didn't receive them, then I'd probably still be working on TLWH, by now, slowly anticipating the day when I finally finish it so I can at last begin work on the sequel which would probably take even longer. So, yeah, I am very grateful for your comments. Very much so. )_

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o


	23. When Pigs Fly

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Twenty-Three: **When Pigs Fly

I don't give Agent Fusco enough credit, y'know? I really should. Remember how at the beginning of the last chapter I was going on about how I didn't have anything planned? Thanks to him, I don't have to worry about that in this chapter. See, whilst I was writing that speech of Sands' (the one about the difference between 'going at' and 'letting into' each other) I kind of worked things into Liam's POV and wound up writing about him reminiscing about a time shortly after Lynné was relieved of her left leg. But only for a bit. I wanted to save something for this chapter, y'see. But, not only did Liam fuel me with one idea, he also gave me two. Sands is gonna have a memory about he and his sister as well. :D

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* * *

**

"How could you _do _that!? You left him out there, freezing – for Christ's sake, it was Alaska! He could've _died_! Or was that your intention? Was it? Tell me, fuckwad, so I can kill you!"

"Don't take that tone with me, young lady!" her father roared, just as furious as she was.

Lynné looked up at him, taking in his features. His face contorted with rage, red with fury, fists clenched to stop the anger that shook them . . . Had she not been furious herself, Lynné felt certain she would have found the whole scenario utterly delightful. However, the thought of her father nearly killing her brother pushed itself to the front of her mind, reminding her that there was a problem to be dealt with.

"Why don't you just admit that you want rid of him?" she hissed venomously. "_Of both of us_!"

"I am _sick _of your unfounded accusations!" her father continued to rail.

"Then just admit it!" Lynné countered, madness and rabidity blazing in her normally dark eyes. "Admit . . . that you didn't want Sands . . . and you didn't want me . . . and that you only married Mom _because of her money_!"

"I had plenty of money before I met your mother!"

When her father slammed his fist into the salt and pepper speckled kitchen counter, Lynné did not react.

The fifteen-year-old glared back at him, storming over to where he stood. They were standing on opposite sides of the island in the kitchen now, a mere foot apart from each other.

**_You could strangle him, _**the voice informed her.

_I know I could._

_**He's so close . . . You could do it . . . It wouldn't be hard.**_

_I _know _it wouldn't. I just don't want to go to jail for the rest of my life. I'm too young for that. Besides, I'm not gonna give into that dipshit._

So instead, she used her words.

"I know you did," she whispered fiercely. "You were rich, but you wanted more. So you lured her into a false love, finishing it off with the marriage licen – "

_SMACK! _

The left side of her face stung as Lynné blinked in bewilderment. He'd hit her. Her father had actually hit her. She hadn't even seen his hand fly out. By the time she did, it was too late. He'd already struck her.

Lynné's breathing was soft but to her it sounded harsh and ragged. Lank hair flopped in her eyes, curtaining her face and acting as a crude hideout from her father's wrath. She stared at the floor. Her own pale face started back up at her, reflected in the polished rust-colored tiles.

_Oh my Christ . . ._

_**It was bound to happen some time.**_

_He did it . . ._

_**You kinda brought it on yourself.**_

_He fucking did it . . ._

_**He was provoked.**_

_He hit me . . ._

_**Wasn't that what you were aiming for?**_

_I was . . . ? I . . . yeah . . ._

_**You wanted an excuse, **_the voice reminded her.

_An excuse to _what

_**You know . . . to **_**kill _him._**

_What??_

_**You can get away with it now. Say it was in self-defense, or that he was a long time child abuser and you just couldn't take it anymore. He needed to be dealt with, so you saw an opportunity . . . and you took it. Simple.**_

_It is?_

_**Yeah, **_the voice assured her with manic delight, **_You just need to make it look convincing. Have him rough you up a bit more, then you take that knife over there, and let him have it._**

_Such a_ _tempting invitation, _she mused, a poetic buzz swarming her mind. _I think I'll take you up on it._

_**Good girl.**_

_Yeah ,yeah . . . just be grateful I'm part masochist._

Composing herself, slightly ashamed that she had taken so long to register what had happened, Lynné raised her eyes to meet her father's. They were the only things that were remotely alike about the two. She couldn't remember how many times she had wanted her mother's icy blue orbs as her own. They would have only made her appearance seem colder, she reminded herself. At least their true color, brown, made her seem more approachable.

"You wanted more," she accused, her voice quiet with deadly calm. "You wanted more so you married her."

"You don't know when to stop, do you??" It was almost amusing to see how viciousness and confusion had combined to form the odd look her father was wearing. Almost.

"Then you went and had Sands, but he wasn't turning out the way you wanted and you knew he never would, so you conned her into having me. Or maybe she actually wanted another kid, who the hell knows? Not me since you won't tell me anything about her."

Her eyes were accusing and laced with a mixture of hurt and hatred.

"Unfortunately, I wasn't what you wanted either. I wasn't even a fucking _boy_."

She let out a cold, weak laugh, fed up with everything about the man who bore the same blood as her. Eyes filled with disgust and revulsion, rimmed with hate and pain, and lit with a burning excitement, she glared at him and felt a perverse hilarity at seeing her father suppress a grimace.

"Tell me, do I disgust you? Are you so sick of me that you want me gone? Kinda need some answers, here, Da –"

There it was again. The sharp stinging sensation on her face. This time it was her right cheek that hurt. Her dark orbs still burning with a deranged abhorrence, Lynné allowed a twisted grin to make its way across her face.

**_Yes! _**the voice cheered. **_Get him to do it again!_**

_If you insist . . ._

"You really are pathetic, ya know that? Money, always money . . . you'll do _anything _for _money_. Disgu –"

His hand flew up, Lynné's eyes widened. Surly he was angry with her enough that now he wanted to cause some real harm?

_Oh, hell, maybe I'll even get knocked out._

She raised her own arms, wanting to lure him into believing that she was terrified and that this was her feeble attempt at protecting herself. Her feet planted firmly on the floor, she waited for the blow.

It never came.

Confused, Lynné opened her eyes. _What the hell . . . ?_

"Arrgh, what the hell do you think you're doing!?" Her father was trying to sound forceful and demanding but his voce betrayed him, letting pain and bewilderment show. He attempted to throw a glare and the person who had pinned both of his arms behind his back, but only resulted in causing more sparks to shoot through his shoulders.

"Saving your ass," a cold voice replied. "Though I've gotta admit, I don't know why."

"Neither do I," Lynné said darkly. Her anger had yet to run out and although Sands had just saved her from another bruise, that did not calm her riled nerves.

"Lyn," her brother sighed, still restraining their father and ignoring his protests, "I know what you were thinking – it was kinda obvious – and as much as I'd like to see him get what's coming to him – "

"_What_??" their father cried, shocked. "What are you talking about!?"

"– I'd rather not see you go to prison," Sands finished dutifully. "'Specially over this prick."

His father opened his mouth, perhaps to warn Sands to watch his language, but thought better of it. For some reason, he got the feeling that threats would not be a good way to go considering the position he was in. Instead he snarled, "Where did you learn this?" and nodded to his bound arms.

"Turns out you were right about college, Dad," Sands replied, grinning. "You can learn some veeery interesting things there."

His father started to growl something in return but a sharp twist of the wrist quickly silenced him.

"I could've said it was self-defense," Lynné told her brother plainly.

"Don't think I didn't know that," he returned. "Even if you did use that as your excuse, you don't have anything to prove it."

"_Marks_," Lynné pointed out, gesturing to her face. Already bright patches of red were fading into purple and seeing this fueled Sands desire to eliminate the man in his grasp but he kept his mind clear, blocking the voice's protests as best he could.

"Still not enough, Lynnie," he countered. "You'd need more dings than that, and you're not gonna get 'em. Come on."

Now she was really confused. "What?"

"After this he –" another painful jerk of his father's arm "—might thing he can start hitting you on a regular basis. And since you need your face and body to pass geometry, you can't live here. So get your shit, don't take forever cuz I might change my mind, and get in the car; you're staying with me."

****When his sister raised an eyebrow, Sands let out an aggravated sigh before providing the explanation, "In my dorm while I'm at college."

"Oh," Lyn realized with mild surprise.

"Just a minute, young man!" their father cut in angrily. "You may be an adult but she's not! You can't take her –"

"She's family and if she _wants _to, she can go with me," Sands interrupted coolly. "That's legal. So, Lyn, you want to?"

Again, she quirked a brow, but after a moment of silence she shrugged.

"Okay."

* * *

Sands had paused on his way to the bathroom – that last nightmare about the Day of the Dead had left him with an urge to shower – just outside of Lynné's bedroom. There was his sister, asleep in her silky black nightgown with the spaghetti straps, and lying next to her was Fucso.

He had his arm around her waist and she looked peaceful. Not happy, she wasn't smiling or anything. She didn't look happy, but she didn't appear restless either. Just . . . content. Maybe that was the word he was searching for or at least something along those lines.

It seemed strange to see her like this. And then, almost as quickly as that thought came to him, it didn't. It didn't seem strange at all. Lynné was a grown woman of twenty-eight. She wasn't shy and she knew how to get what she wanted without being a slut about it. She didn't sleep around and she didn't give hand jobs for cash. As far as Sands could tell, she was entitled to just as much as he was.

Once again he reminded himself that he'd never thought of him as his little sister, someone he needed to look out for and protect. He'd never been the stereotypical big brother and she had never asked him to be. That didn't stop him from feeling some sort of obligation, however. The need to protect her was strong but only during hard times, like when she was in danger of being hurt whether it be mentally or physically. Most of the time, though, Lynné could protect herself and that eased his worried mind for a good while.

Sighing and deciding that he really did need that shower, Sands cast one last glance at Liam and his sister.

_Nah. Fusco wouldn't do anything to her._

_**Whatever you say, **_the voice yawned tiredly.

* * *

Liam pulled his foot back just in time. A second later, and the door would closed in on his foot. It was too late for his hand, however. Stifling his cry of agony as his fingers were crushed between the door and its frame, he gripped the trapped wrist with his free hand, bit down hard on his lower lip, and tugged.

"A-ahh . . ." Squeezing his eyes shut, Liam gasped, trying desperately to relieve the pain in his hand.

"I thought the CIA would've trained you better than this!" an angry voice shrieked from the other side of the door.

"You caught me off guard!" As soon as the sentence had left his mouth, Liam winced. Even to him the words sounded pathetic.

"You're CIA!" the voice insisted, slightly muffled due to the wood of the door. "You're fucking _trained _to be ready for anything! We all are! Well ya know what, Fusco? It's a lie. It's all a fucking lie. The entire _fucking **agency **_is one big sham!"

"Miss Sands," he began desperately but a feral growl from behind the door quickly brought him to his sense.

"_Lynné_," he amended at once, fearful of his fellow agent's wrath. "Look, I know you're hurting, but –"

"Hurting?" she asked hollowly, a small, icy, slightly hysterical laugh in her voice. "I don't know what you're talking about, Fusco, cuz I'm havin' a _ball_."

"Lynné, _please_," he tried again more desperately than before. "I . . . sometimes it, y'know . . . when there's something wrong . . . it helps to talk about it."

"Never worked before," she snapped irritably.

"Ever tried it before?" he retorted, surprised at how quick-witted he had become all of a sudden.

"I never had any reason to," she lied coldly.

"Do you now?"

"No."

Before he even voiced the question, Liam knew what answer he would receive. He didn't know why he asked, nor did he know why he kept asking. Lynné wouldn't talk, not about what was on her mind. Pigs would fly before that happened. With a sad breath, Liam turned his gaze from the rough wooden door to the small window – the only one in the entire hallway -- behind him.

_Nope. Don't see any._

"What happened anyway?" he asked wearily, wondering if he would live through the night.

"What do you _think _happened, Fusoc? They cut off my leg. The cartel . . . cut off . . my _goddamn **leg**_!!"

Nervously, Liam backed away from the door.

"I-I know _that_," he began testily, "I just . . . well, the details might be important when the Company shows up –"

"Company?" Lynné echoed in a dead voice. "Did you call them?"

"No."

"Did you page them?"

"N . . . no."

"E-mail them, fax them, make contact of any kind – _did you contact the Company_?"

"_No_," Liam insisted forcefully. "Sh-should I?"

"Christ, no!" his partner cried. "Don't you get it? The abandoned me, Fusco. Fucking left me to die out there. I called the second before Barillo nabbed me and they hung up."

"No," Liam breathed, refusing to believe her. "They . . . they wouldn't do that."

"Wakey, wakey, Liam dear. They _would_ and they did. If you're a danger to the agency or can afford being lost, they won't ax you, but they'll send you to fucking _Mexico _where someone will ax you _for _them. So get with the program, honey, the good ol' Central Intelligence Agency won't come through for their agents. If you can be thrown away, then you bet your ass they'll burn you."

"I . . ." Liam faltered, stunned. "I just ca –"

"Can't believe it?" Lynné mocked with sad hysteria. "Best start believin' it, Fusco. You might be next."

* * *

But he hadn't been burned. The CIA had come searching for Lynné, but, as she had said many times afterwards, they didn't look very hard or very long. They hadn't even showed up at his house as far as Liam knew. He and his partner had taken up residence in the small, three-story place Lynné had been staying at. She had rented it while in charge of the operation in Mexico and then, after the escapade with the Barillo cartel, and had used the last of her money to buy it. And Liam had stayed with her.

_But why? _he now argued with himself. Cautiously, he cast a nervous glance at the back of the slender woman beside him. Lynné was such a difficult woman to live with, three years – even three _hours _proved that. She had threatened to kill him on numerous occasions before and after her . . . surgery. She was cocky, callous, devious, potentially sociopathic, unwilling to open up to anyone . . . so why, _why _had he stayed with her?

_Maybe I love her, _he thought dully.

It seemed plausible, now that he thought of it and maybe it was true. After all, when she didn't have a gun pointed at his head, Lynné was all right.

_And I'm probably the only person who's ever thought that about her._

* * *

__

_So, what about the new scene change thing? Everybody okay with it? Hopefully it'll stay and I won't have to up and change everything in the middle of the story. Unlike the last two times (glare). And I hope that was enough Liam for everybody, too. God knows that guy hasn't made any appearances lately._

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**morph: **Geh, I'm not saying a word. u.u;;; Hope this chapter was eventful, though. I know that if not the next chapter then the one after that will have some action-y stuff in it.

**Dawnie-7: **Believe me, I've wanted to have somebody deck Cat a good one on more than one occasion. However, that one scene wasn't it. Too many agents around and, while Lyn doesn't really care whether or not she breaks the rules, she knows that if she wants any cooperation she can't go doing things like knocking her stepsister's teeth out. Too bad, though. Rest assured, though, Catherine _will _get what's coming to her. (evil grin)

**Lynx Ryder: **lol, yes, he agreed, although it was, like you said, grudgingly and in his head, but he agreed all the same. Now he's just gotta admit that he won't save her because of his _job_, but that could take a while. Yeah, Lynné is definitely not the yelling type save for a few rare occasions as seen in this chapter. And, yes, go check out '_Collateral_'! Like I said, I don't care for Tom Cruise all that much, but his character was great in that movie. I really liked him. Of course, I've always had a strange affection for arrogant guys with the bad attitudes. 9.9'

**fanfiction fanatic: **Still haven't seen '_The Forgotten_' although now I really want to. Hopefully it won't have a lame twist at the end like '_The Village,_' which I probably would've liked had they not made it out to be a horror movie. I mean, if I go to the movies to get the shit scared out of me, it's kinda disappointing when I _don't. _But, yeah, I'm betting on either government conspiracy or crazy lady. I really don't care as long as it isn't too predictable. u.u

o


	24. He Came in Through the Bedroom Window

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Twenty-Four: **He Came in Through the Bedroom Window

I'd like to give a shout out to Miss Rosa Hernandez for the inspiration for this chapter. Even though she has yet to make an appearance or even be seen. Albeit, a few chapters along the road, you're all gonna hate her. She's a royal pain in the arse.

**VVV**

The sound of strong bones crashing against a solid wall Zebbidy's bedroom. Terrified, she recoiled, drawing her hands up and twisting an auburn tress around her finger. She knew she shouldn't be afraid. She was twelve years old, after all; she had gone through this many times over the past six years. This time should be no different, but she knew it would be.

Suddenly, her grandfather rounded on her, ferocity blazing in his cold, gray irises. Zebbidy felt herself just barely suppressing the urge to run away and stow away in her private sanctuary: Under her bed.

"How long have you been able to do this?" he demanded. His voice was just above a whisper yet he still managed to keep it terrifying.

"W-what are you tal –"

"_You know exactly what I'm talking about!_" her grandfather roared, eyes wide with fury. "Now, answer me!"

Zebbidy shrugged impishly.

"I'm not sure –"

"I want a clear answer, petite fille," her grandfather informed her, reverting back to his harshly quiet voice. "I know you can give me one. So I will ask again: _How long have you been doing this_?"

Swallowing the lump in her throat, the twelve-year-old responded, "Si-since I was two."

"And did you know what you were doing at the time?"

"No."

"But you soon figured out. I'm sure your prostituée dégoûtante of a mother told you everything."

Zebbidy fought her body's demands to give him the ugliest look possible. She did not know what Grandfather had said about her mother, but she knew it must have been something incredibly rude. He had never called her anything nicer than an icky girl, Zebbidy knew, even if she wasn't sure her grandfather had ever called her mother 'an icky girl.'

"Yes, sir," she responded softly. "She did."

"And did she teach you anything else?" her grandfather pressed.

"Just that . . . that while I should appreciate my gifts, it is wrong to use them for my own will or for evil."

"She was a fool," he spat, "who couldn't even foresee her own . . . untimely . . . death."

He then gave her that terrible sneer that she hated the most. It was his ugliest face, she always thought, the one where he showed her all of his teeth. All that remained, at least. There were two missing.

Suddenly, her grandfather pounded his hands into her bedroom wall again, this time on either side of her small body. She was trapped and the thought scared her. Before she could have run, she could have always run. Sure, there was the risk of being caught and dragged back by guards to be _punished_ (she thought of the word and a dark look came to her normally bright eyes), but she still could have held the feeling of running. That would have caused the pain of her punishment to subside. But now, she could not run and her grandfather knew it.

"You've nowhere to go, Zebbidy Samhain," he stated, his voice nothing more than a low growl that vibrated in his throat. "Le lapin has finally been snared, so unless it wants to become food for the _dogs_, I suggest it speaks up."

"Tell me what you saw," he ordered severely when she offered no answer.

Zebbidy couldn't speak. It felt as though her lips had been bolted shut. She could only stare into her grandfather's cold, unfeeling eyes, too scared to say anything. Furious at her silence he grabbed her small shoulders and, a single swift advance, slammed her into the wall.

"_Answer me_!"

Though her spine was aching from the force, though she knew that her shoulders now bore bruises from her grandfather's vicious grip, Zebbidy pulled her gaze away from the shiny brown leather of her grandfather's shoes and looked up into his eyes instead.

"You . . ."

"_Me_?" he pressed forcefully.

She nodded. "Yes. Some . . . someone was behind you . . . holding something – I think it was a club or a knife."

"An assassin?" her grandfather questioned.

For the second time, her head bobbed. "I think so."

"Who?"

"I-I don't _know_."

"Come now, chére," he coaxed. Though his words were warm and loving, they did nothing to thaw the blood that had frozen in her veins. "With your grand abilities, I am sure you were able to see who was attacking me."

Shaking her head, Zebbidy insisted, "No, I didn't. I don't know _who _it was, just that it was a man. His face was in the shadows the entire time."

Finally, wearing a stone mask for his face, he released her. Zebbidy remained pressed against the wall, ignoring how much her back was begging her to relent. She kept her eyes on her grandfather at all times, unsure what he was going to do next.

"Very well," he said at last, tone cool and calculated as he turned to exit her room. "This problem will be dealt with.

"And Zebbidy," her grandfather continued, looking at her out of the corner of his eye, "if I learn that you have fed me false information, you know that you will have a heavy fine to pay."

Her eyes were closed in grief, her back was still flat against the wall behind her, and her heart pounded so wildly it threatened to break free of her chest. Utterly lost for words, Zebbidy nodded.

**VVV**

In a robot-like trance, Zebbidy brushed strand after strand of hair. Her eyes were stretched to the size of quarters, and she continued to run the soft bristles of her brush through dark red ribbons, as if hypnotized. Sometimes she went over the same piece more than once. She took no notice, preoccupied by staring intently at the enormous vanity mirror in front of her. Her own reflection gazed back at her, transfixed. Her eyes were heavy, clouded over from lack of sleep, but she couldn't go back to bed.

_If I do, I'll see _him _again, or maybe some other flash from Sands' past or future._

She could not deny it; the agent was on her mind. But she found him fascinating, Zebbidy insisted. That was why he haunted her thoughts. He would still be in her head, even if she hadn't been afflicted with visions of him for the past . . . five months? Dear gods, had it been that long already? Zebbidy closed her eyes, attempting to usher the fog in her brain away. That didn't work, but a sudden '_thump_' did.

Head bowed, Zebbidy kept her eyes focused on the large silver hairbrush in her hands, but her ears were another story. She listened hard, keeping attentive just as she had been taught. The sound had been so quiet . . . no one would have heard it. No one _normal_, at least. But Zebbidy's hyper-hearing picked up on the noise right away.

_Thump_

There it was again. Without stopping her taming of her hair, she raised her eyes to meet her mirror once again, this time, focusing on what was going on behind her instead of straight ahead.

The posh, ornate window behind and to the left of her twitched ever so slightly, but that was all the movement she needed. Someone was trying to break in. Zebbidy sighed, slightly disappointed. She had been there a week and Poisson was trying to kill her.

_Seven days, _she hissed to herself in an eerily high-pitched whisper. Despite the situation, Zebbidy had to fight as the strong desire to laugh bubbled inside her. But she overcame the urge and slowly reached out in front of her. Slowly pulling open the horizontal drawer of the white vanity that sat before her, Zebbidy reasoned, _Least I made it that long. Still, he didn't even tell me what purpose I served in being here. Or, wait, maybe he thought I'd be able to read his mind. I _am _'the psychic' after all. Cock sucking asshole . . ._

Her fingers curled around something made of cold steel. With a sigh, she retrieved her hand from the drawer, really not wanting to find a use for the small revolver that followed it.

As a black-clad figure slipped stealthily through her window, Zebbidy twisted around in her seat. Straddling it backwards, with her slender arms crossed over the back of the chair, she cocked her gun carelessly. Now all she had to do was flip off the safety . . .

_Click_

Immediately, Sands halted. One foot was sinking into the soft creamy carpeting, the other was halfway through the window, and his eyes went wide. His head whipped around towards the noise and when he saw its source, his eyes, if possible, became even larger. He raised an eyebrow.

_Déjà vu?_

_**Yeah, really. This seems sorta familiar. Haven't we been here before?**_

_Fuck, _he cursed, then, reluctantly, _Yeah._

_**Eh. Just be grateful she hasn't taken a shot at you.**_

_Yet._

He knew, however, that although she was holding him at gunpoint, Zebbidy would not harm him. Once she recognized him, that is. Holding up his arms up in, he remembered bitterly, that same spread out gesture as before, he made his statement of defense.

"I come in peace, chère," he assured her carefully, making sure to keep his voice low.

Realizing whom the voice belonged to at once, Zebbidy hastily lowered her weapon while staring at the agent in awe. She blinked, perplexed.

"May I ask what you're doing here?"

"As long as I can ask a few questions of my own," Sands replied, taking a seat across the room on her comfortable bed. "For instance, why hasn't Poisson opened up yet? Now, I'm not saying I expect him to spill his guts, but . . . it's been a _week_, miel . . . and he hasn't said a word."

_None that you've heard, _Zebbidy muttered silently, thinking darkly of the fragments of thoughts she'd intercepted from Poisson.

"I know," she said aloud, "but, as I've _told _you, he is not one to open up –"

"Then, as I've told _you_, you need to _get _him to talk. Force it out of him if you half to because the CIA's looking at bringing this down by November."

Zebbidy's eyebrows shot up.

"Really?" she asked, interested.

"Yeah," Sands replied. "Only thing is, they don't know enough weaknesses. That's where you come in, sugar-butt. We need you to get inside."

"_How_?" she demanded in a fierce whisper, her eyes slanted into angry slits.

"Golly, Zeb, this certainly is odd. I wouldn't've expected you to be fresh out of ideas." He shook his head sadly. "And here I had tricked myself into thinking you were a creative individual –"

"My inventive skills shouldn't be involved in this conversation, Sands," Zebbidy spat, not insulted by his remark, but annoyed all the same. "Don't bring them into this."

"Then dig up some shit on the guy, Zeb," he urged while managing to hide his vexation. "For Christ's sake, at least find out what the fuck he wants with you."

_I already know, _she thought desperately. _And he knows I know. Problem is, I'm not gonna do what he wants. I _can't

Noticing the woman's sudden silence, Sands quirked a brow, gazing at her sullen form and forlorn eyes.

**_Smooth, fuckmook. And she was just starting to trust you, too._**

_The hell she was. She's a smart kid and even kids know better than to trust me._

_**Unless they're peddling gum in Mexico or the granddaughter of a French Mafia don.**_

_Shut up._

Grinding his teeth, Sands rolled his eyes toward the vaulted ceiling before closing them tiredly and facing Zebbidy.

"What is it?" he sighed, his irritation and boredom getting the better of him and slipping into his tone.

"Nothing you would understand," she replied gloomily.

Raising his eyes to the ceiling once again, Sands retorted, "Honey, I've grown up with five women, three of whom were teenagers during that time. If you don't think I'd understand about 'Aunt Floe,' you're mista –"

"Why are you here, Sands?" Zebbidy interjected with forced calm. Her eyes were closed, shielding the greed orbs from him. She had the feeling that if she were to look at him now heads would roll. Or rather, objects such as perfume bottles, shoes, pillows, and jewelry/cameras/microphones would fly.

"You wanted to remind me that I am now a resident agent, that I have a job to do, and that I had better hop to because the CIA has the patients of a hyperactive three-year-old."

_Fuck, she nailed 'em, _Sands couldn't help but approve.

"So until hand over some useful information," Zebbidy went on, "they're gonna continue to send their agents over here to try and coddle me into dangerous interrogation."

"Well," he answered thoughtfully, heading towards the open window, "since you seem to have me all figured out, I guess I'll take my leave." Sands paused, hands on either side of the spotless window frame, turning to acknowledge Zebbidy expectantly. She merely stared back at him.

Sands, having had it with waiting around for an answer he wasn't going to get, was just about to make his departure when Zebbidy spoke at last.

"Why did they send you?"

A moment of silence passed as Sands stared out the window and Zebbidy gazed over at him. Finally, the agent pivoted. Folding his arms over his chest he leaned back, reclining against the dark crimson wall. The beige curtains fluttered in the fall breeze, billowing out gracefully and clashing with his black clothing.

"There are other agents working on this that could've broken into this place," Zebbidy continued, picking up where she had left off. "Why didn't you get one of _them_ to do the CIA's bidding?"

"Well, quite frankly, because they're all incompetent assholes who I don't trust as far as I can throw," Sands replied honestly.

_Plus I've had some experience in this area._

"And you've had experience in this area," Zebbidy smirked, coolly echoing the agent's thoughts, motioning to the open window beside him.

Masking his surprise with a look of placid indifference, Sands shrugged.

"You could say that."

Using his shoulder blades, he pushed himself away from the wall, flinching slightly at the tug he felt when he used some muscles he shouldn't have. Concealing his reaction expertly, he placed both palms on the windowsill, intent on leaving the mansion soon.

Seeing this, Zebbidy perked an eyebrow, asking, "You done?"

He smiled.

"Hardly, chére. An agent's work in never done, even if you're out if the biz."

"Ah," Zebbidy noted. "No rest for the wicked."

Smirk back in place, Sands put one foot on the windowsill between his hands, looking prepared to bolt at a moment's notice despite the smile he bore.

"Bonne nuit, ma dame."

Zebbidy's other eyebrow rose to meet its mate.

"Right."

Whether Sands heard her or not, Zebbidy never knew. As soon as the word parted company with her lips, the agent swung himself out of her window in one fluid movement and disappeared from view, camouflaged by darkness.

**VVV**

"You all know that our guests will be watching, therefore we must make an effort to keep ourselves presentable." Édouard Poisson's bushy eyebrows knitted together as he glared down the long breakfast table at his family. "We have done this before. This time should be no different –"

"Then why are you concerned about our behavior, father?" Vincent questioned waspishly, lowering the gleaming spoon in his hand.

The steely gray iris of Édouard's left eye disappeared momentarily as the Mafia leader's lower lid twitched a fraction. Further down the table, Zebbidy noticed this and kept her eyes on the star in the center of her grapefruit.

When Poisson finally spoke again, his voice was taunt with forced calm.

"Oui, Vincent, I shall admit that I have been taking some extra precautions while planing this party, but it is because of my deep care for my family that I do this. Surely, if you had children of your own, you would worry for their safety as well."

He gave a nasty smile, one that his son returned in full.

"Of course, father. However, I do not _have _any children, so you'll forgive my mistake, I hope."

"You would be so lucky," Alphonse hissed at his brother, glaring angrily on Zebbidy's right. She glanced at him but said nothing.

Across the table, Vincent shrugged, a blasé air about his entire being. Next to Zebbidy, creases were forming around Alphonse's eyes and forehead as his scowl deepened.

"This includes you as well, Mademoiselle _Samhain,_" Édouard Poisson stressed, narrowing his steely eyes at her. "I am sure you know how to behave from . . . experience."

Smiling coldly, Zebbidy replied, "Of course. Memorable moments rarely leave me."

An evil sneer twisting upon his face, eyes still narrowed in a glare, Édouard gave a small nod of approval. His focus moved from Zebbidy, to his sons, Alphonse first and then finally Vincent. Finished with his female guest, he reverted back to his original topic: The party.

"As you know, this is a costume ball." He paused, surveying them through cold gray eyes, prepared to lash out at anyone that dared to interrupt or failed to pay attention. "You each have an attire primed, I hope."

While each son nodded unenthusiastically, Zebbidy grew stiff in her seat.

_Shit._

Slowly, she raised a hand like a child in school, knowing that if she called out the Mafia don's name, she would be risking 'punishment.'

Catching sight of the tentative signal immediately, Édouard turned his head sharply in Zebbidy's direction, honing in on his captive. Eyes contracted suspiciously, he voiced but one word: "_What_?"

"I don't," Zebbidy answered promptly, making sure to keep her voice and expression impassive.

"Don't _what_, mademoiselle?" he demanded, aggravation prominent in his tone.

"A costume," she replied smoothly. "I don't have one."

_Y'know, what with your son kidnapping me and all, I couldn't really find the _time she thought but refused to say. She couldn't chance it. Poisson would jump at the chance to chastise her, and that was _not _something she could risk with a group of CIA agents buzzing in her ears.

"One shall be provided for you, ma chére," Poisson assured her evenly.

_I wish he wouldn't call me that, _Zebbidy thought blandly, conjuring an image of Sands – _with _eyes, thankfully – in her mind.

"I will make an appointment to have you fitted this afternoon," Édouard continued, not hearing her unspoken words. "Do you have any requests?"

She looked up, surprised and hating the delight that in her holder relished in when he saw that he had caught her off guard.

"Something green – _dark _green, but not forest green – if you don't mind."

Fridged smile returning to his face, Édouard nodded once.

"That can be arranged, made –"

He never had the chance to finish. Suddenly, the doors behind him swung open, revealing one of Poisson's many assistants – though he looked more like a body guard, judging by his muscular build – to be standing there, a severe expression on his tough face.

"Yes?" Poisson demanded, furious at the interruption. The man at the door, however, took no notice of his employer's rage, his training having coddled him into a complete state of unshakable neutrality.

She reached for her neck, feeling around until her fingers brushed against cool stone. Unconsciously, she rubbed the opal as she stared interestedly at the door and her thoughts abandoned her to wander away in search of more stimulating activities.

**VVV**

"Damnit, somebody tell her to get her hands off of the camera!"

Catherine's stretching rang in Sands ear, but he paid no attention. At the moment, the moving black screen in front of him was more intriguing than his stepsister's hissy fits. Still, Cat was right. In her distraction, his charge had begun to run her fingers along her choker, blocking the camera and destroying any chance of catching a glimpse anything.

_I knew we should've given her the _earring_-cameras instead . . ._

**VVV**

"A Mademoiselle Hernandez to see you, monsieur," the mobster replied. As the words left his mouth, a woman entered without even being invited into the room.

_She's obviously lived with worse, _Zebbidy mused, thinking of Édouard Poisson's notorious temper. She watched as the woman – more lustrous than herself – moved silently towards the table, taking in the slight limp that accompanied her mechanical walk. It was so strange. Almost as if she had two stiff legs at once.

And then, it hit.

Without warning, Zebbidy's vision blurred as they welled with tears that soon flowed over the rims of her eyes. Clenching the jewel on her throat in reaction to the unexpected wave of fear that overcame her, she ripped it from her neck in an effort to lower her hand. The necklace fell to the floor where it lay, facedown and unnoticed.

Zebbidy froze in her seat, wrapping her arms around herself as she prepared as best she could for what would happen next.

Her head throbbed, pounded, stabbed with pain as her brain dangerously rocked in her skull. She wanted to let out a cry of pain but her jaw had gone numb along with the rest of her body. She could still shiver, oddly, and she did.

The room began to melt around her, it's colors smearing before her until the once glamorous and elaborate dining hall resembled something like a child's finger painting. Eyes pressed shut, Zebbidy quaked where she sat as brilliant hues of blues, pinks, whites, purples, and yellows swirled in front of the otherwise black canvas that was the inside of her eyelids. They made her think, amid the maddening pain in her head, of the northern lights.

The colors still whirled and rolled, weaving in and out of her head, coming and going as they pleased. Yet at the same time, all was black. She could see, smell, hear nothing that was going on in the world around her, but the feel and sound image plastered over her eyes rang out loud and clear.

'. . . and I calmly waltz away with twenty million pesos.'

'And you want me to come with you?' the silky voice of a woman asked, sounding mildly flattered.

'Only bring the essentials,' a man, the first voice she had heard, instructed.

Now the sound of a chair scraping against a wooden floor filled her ears. Somewhere, someone was either getting up or sitting down.

Silence for several seconds . . .

The man – _Sands, _Zebbidy now realized – spoke again, this time sounding further away. About five feet or so . . .

'Oh, yeah,' he said suddenly, as if he had just remembered something. 'Things may get a wee bit dangerous, there, sugar-butt, so . . .'

Someone – the woman, Zebbidy figured – made the something like the sound a pistol would make. Two 'shots' were fired before Sands continued.

'. . . can ya dig it?'

The woman smiled at these words. Zebbidy could hear it. She herself had worn a smirk when Sands had asked her the same question.

'I can dig it.'

She had laughed after that. After Sands had warned her about wanting his key back, whatever that meant, she had laughed. At first it had started out as a quiet snicker, as if the woman had been making fun of the agent. But it had grown, developing into near, but not _quite _hysterical cackling that filled Zebbidy's mind, blocking out everything else so that she was deft as well as blind.

At last, the maniacal laughter died, leaving her by herself. Then the blackness of her eyes' canvas took over, consuming her wholly, and Zebbidy knew no more.

**VVV**

_Hah! I will _not _forget to mention this: This chapter's title is a (blatant, if you are a fan) rip off from the Beatles' song '_She Came in Through the Bathroom Window._' I went through three possible names for it before finally settling on that one, so hopefully some will find it amusing. ;)_

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**Dawnie-7: **Somebody mentioned the 'content' line! Yay! I was hoping someone would, especially since I mentioned in TLWH that 'Lynné wasn't a happy person, that she wasn't even content with herself,' so it made my day. I mean, praise of all kinds, but when somebody mentions small things like that I really get a kick out of it.

**Lynx Ryder: **lol, I won't mention anything to him. Still anticipating chapters for '_Darkness and Shadows,_' after all. u.u Yeah, Lyn's definitely not the type. At some point, she may have considered getting married, but her dad kinda destroyed all hopes of that ever happening when he conned her into getting hitched. And Liam . . . well, he _cares _for her, which is pretty much the same as _loving _her only . . . less involved? No, no, cuz they're already involved (snicker). There isn't as much commitment involved, I should say. But deep down ,does he love her? Most likely, yeah. Only thing left is getting Lynné to admit the same thing. O.o Oy vey . . .

**morph: **Aww, everybody's calling Liam a sweetheart. That's so cute; it fits him, I think. But it's good to know you liked this chapter – told ya it'd be more entertaining :D

**DragonHunter200: **Gotta admit that 'Alaska' was probably the most fun to write when I was doing TLWH. I just wished I could've done _more _with it, so that's where that flashback came from. It was to be right after they got home from the trip and Lyn was still pissed. No, I didn't mention Sands taking Lyn to live with him in the other story. That's one thing I wanted to put it but could not find the proper place for. It's great to know that everybody likes Liam. Not that I thought he wasn't well received, cuz I haven't gotten any reviews complaining about him. I just didn't know that you guys found him so sweet. :D o.o! (hides under desk) Not whining! I have to deal with that from my cousin and younger sister! D8 You'd think I'd be immune to it by now, but no.

**fanfiction fanatic: **That's what I had wondered about the movie, too. I mean, they said that it was _based _on legends, so . . . does that mean that there _were _creatures in the woods or what? All I know is that I was fairly disappointed in the movie's outcome. I just ended too soon. Plus, blind girl. In the woods. With no one to guide her. . . . . o-_kay_, then. I can see someone like Sands (who I was thinking of through that entire scene 9.9;;) making it out of the woods alive, or having enough sense _not _to go because they knew that there wasn't a chance in hell they _would _make it out alive, but the blind girl (I forget her name, strange thing for me to do, actually) . . . I dunno. The whole thing was kind of a let down for me. Oh well. I'm off to defend myself from the FBI/CIA/anyone else who's involved with . . . _THEM. _(shifty-eyes, shifty-eyes) . . . Ta.

o


	25. Wishful Thinking

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Twenty-Five: **Wishful Thinking

Oh my _God _I can't believe I thought this story would be shorter than the last one! o.o' Already I've written just as many chapters but I'm only a little more than halfway done. I'm gonna try and refrain myself from predicting how many chapters are left. Unlike last time. 9.9 Very annoying, wasn't it?

**VVV**

"She saw something," Édouard Poisson muttered to his sons as he quickly strode through the maze-like hallways of his home, stroking his bristly moustache all the while.

"Are you sure of that, father?" Vincent inquired. "She looked as though she was having a seizure to me."

"That was no seizure, my son, and you know it," his father snapped threateningly. "Zebbidy's second sight brings many similar symptoms, but they are not the same. She was having a vision."

"What do you suppose it was, father?" Alphonse wondered, matching his father's side as well as he could.

"Je ne sais pas," he murmured distractedly, turning a corner so sharply that Alphonse nearly collided with the wall. Vincent laughed quietly.

"It appeared to have been triggered by the presence of Mademoiselle Hernandez." Vincent slid into the conversation with ease.

"So it seems . . ." his father responded still just barely staying with them. It was clear that his own thoughts were keeping him preoccupied.

"Will she talk?" Alphonse asked curiously.

"Je ne sais pas," Édouard said again. "However, you know that if she will not, I can always make her."

With a leer that was a complete replica of his father's, Alphonse nodded. "Oui. I do."

Vincent merely stared.

**VVV**

"_Fuck_," Sands swore, charging through the front door, anger swirling around him.

"What?" His sister's voice came from the top of the stairs, curiosity ringing through her single question.

"We lost contact with Zebbidy." Sands' answer was simple, but annoyance laced his voice and Lynné could hear it as sudden outrage filled her small body.

"_What_!?"

"Camera's dead. She tore it off –"

"_WHAT!?"_

"And you're usually such an eloquent speaker, Lynnie," Sands murmured thoughtfully as his sister nearly flew down the steps.

"As I was saying," he continued once Lynné had reached the bottom step, "Mademoiselle Hernandez showed up, Zeb started fingering her necklace – y'know that habit of hers – and then . . ." He shook his head and held up his hands trying to find the right word to use ". . . it was a fucking _convulsion_ from the sound of it."

"So the mics are still working," Lynné concluded, thinking everything through. "And you said convulsion . . . like what happened at la pique."

Her brother shrugged, dropping onto couch and hearing the leather creak beneath him as he did. He was well aware that Lynné was still standing there, possible waiting for a response or merely contemplating. Deciding that the last option seemed much more appealing, Sands leaned against the back of the couch and let out a long breath. Shit. This wasn't his day.

"The necklace fell to the floor and then . . ." He waved his hands around carelessly. "Snow."

"I take it we don't have anything new on the allusive Rosa Hernandez, then," Lynné assumed as she took a seat on the red recliner. Raising a hand, she rubbed her temple tiredly.

"Nope," Sands replied, his voice just as worn out.

"What's wrong?" someone suddenly asked, tearing the two agents out of their brood.

Heads twisting towards the sound in one synchronized motion, Sands and Lynné were met with the sight of a worried, slightly befuddled Liam Fusco standing in the doorway of the kitchen wearing an expression of utmost concernment. Joséphine stood at his side just as interested. Having heard the outbursts in the living room, the child had followed Liam, wanting to investigate.

"You're timing is so of, Fusco," Sands remarked. "But if you must know, Zebbidy's camera is out."

Liam gasped, "Poisson knows –"

"No, Poisson doesn't know as far as we can tell," Lynné consoled him unenthusiastically. "According to Sands, the only thing that happened was that she took off the camera, it fell to the floor, and broke."

"Why did she take off the camera?" Liam wondered, confused.

"Couldn't tell ya, Liam," his partner replied.

"My guess is she had another episode, fit, whatever the hell you wanna call it," Sands explained as he closed his eyes and reclined his head against the back of the couch.

"Like what happened at la pique?" Liam asked.

"Seems to be everyone else's vote."

Liam's brow furrowed in deep concentration before he finally voicing his thoughts.

"Did we get anything before we lost the connection?"

"Just Poisson's lecture about everyone needing to _behave themselves _at his big blow out," Lynné reported. "And some thug announcing Hernandez."

As both Sands and Lynné expected, the tentative agent's blue orbs bugged in surprise, but before he could ask the predictable question, Sands cut him off with the answer.

"Don't get excited, Fusco, she didn't say a word. Before or after the transmission cut out."

"Wait a minute," Lynné said suddenly, turning towards their young houseguest. "Josey . . . when you found me that day in the Louvre . . . as I recall, you said that your grandfather and your uncle were after me. And then you added – albeit, quietly – that a woman was involved in the plan too, d'you remember?"

The little girl nodded, "Oui."

"Mind telling me who she was?" the agent prodded.

"Pas quelqu'un a appelé Hernandez," (Not anyone named Hernandez,) the child answered abruptly.

All three agents started, taken aback. Not terribly affected by Joséphine's sudden revelation, Sands and his sister took less time to recover than Liam did. That did not mean that when he spoke Sands response would be incredibly brilliant, however.

"You're sure?"

"Oui," the child answered sincerely.

"Then who _was _the woman if she wasn't Hernandez?" Lynné pressed.

Joséphine shrugged her tiny shoulders sadly. "Je ne sais pas . . . Je suis désolé." (I don't know . . . I'm sorry.)

"Do you know what she sounded like?"

Her dark eyes downcast, the child shook her head sending her pale curls swinging around her face lightly.

"Non. Chaque fois que le Grand-père lui a parlé, c'était toujours sur le téléphone." (No. Whenever Grandfather spoke to her, it was always over the telephone.)

Listening to his sister curse under her breath, Sands let out a rough sigh and rubbed the bridge of his nose. _Fuck. _They had nothing when it came right down to it. Sure, they knew a few tiny details but were any of them worth _anything_?

No. He didn't think they were.

What _were _they anyway? Poisson wanted Zebbidy, but no one knew what for. Alphonse was a sleazy, brown nosing, ass kissing little schmuck who would fetch, roll over, die, and bury himself if his daddy commanded it. Rosa Hernandez . . . what the fuck did they have on her except the bare facts? Nice ass, black hair, blue eyes, and a wealthy orphan. And she sent Zebbidy into seizures, but was there anything else? Vincent Poisson wanted out of the game, out of the mob business, but so far all he'd done was keep his word not to rat them out. That could change. People could change. And that was a fact Sands knew all too well.

**_Speaking of people changing, _**the voice piped up knowingly, **_let's talk about you._**

_What now? _he groaned silently.

**_I wasn't finished, _**it snapped stiffly.

_Hope you excuse me if I don't give a flying fu –_

_**I was **_**going _to say 'let's talk about _you _and Zebbidy._**

_What about us?_

_**Ha! That!**_

_What _'thathe asked incredulously. _There isn't a 'that.'_

_**Yes there is, **_the voice insisted defiantly. **_You said '_us_' that implies that there _is _something._**

_Something?_

_**Something between you two! **_the voice hollered, clearly unpleased by Sands' deliberate stupidity.

_Wha – where did that come from? There is _nothing _between us; there isn't even anything amongst us. For Christ's sake, do you really think I'd go after someone after That Bitch?_

_**Well, **_the voice considered reasonably, **_if the right _person _came along._**

_You're forgetting that one _hasn't _come along. So if it isn't too much trouble, stop picking at me. The subject is closed, I'm done, piss off._

_**Denial, denial, **_**denial**the voice chanted in an obnoxiously whiny tone.

Even though he knew it would not stay put for long, Sands shoved the voice back to it's proper place: The back of his head. He could still hear it's faint protests, but he blocked them out by averting his attention to a more important matter. Zebbidy needed to be contacted.

**VVV**

Without opening her eyes, Zebbidy explored the world around her. She simply laid still, absorbing all of the sounds, smells, and textures around her. It was a handy trick she had been taught at a young age, and she used it to her advantage.

_If I don't move, then they won't know I'm awake._

Judging by the lack of sunlight on her face, she went with her instinct, figuring that the sun must have died some time ago. There was a tug in her chest and she knew it was ache. She missed it. She missed the sun, the trees, the flowers, the air . . .

I see trees that are green, red roses too.

  
I watch them bloom for me and you .

  
_And I think to myself . . . what a wonderful world._

But Poisson would never be so lenient as to allow her to venture outdoors. She was his captive, his prize. Something as valuable as she would not be permitted such a ludicrous request.

She was warm, cushioned by a soft downy mattress and silk pillows. Comfortable did not begin to describe how she felt when she was surrounded by wonderful, balmy air that lulled her, dampening her senses with solace.

_Which is probably what Poisson's specifications read when he had this room made, _Zebbidy mused heartlessly.

Curling her thin fingers around the edge of the thick blanket that covered her, she let out a sad breath in her mind, careful not to let herself be heard by anyone other than herself.

She knew Poisson's comfort was farce. It was as much of a lie as the act he put on whenever she entered his presence. But for as long as she had known him, Zebbidy had always strived not to be thwarted by his manipulation. He was a sham to her and he always had been.

Nature had always had some hold on her. _It _was her solace, not some velvet bedding that provided a false sense of security. Not the counterfeit compassion of Édouard Poisson. Not his cameras or his guards, nor his money or his three feet high, titanium gates could put her at ease. None of those things meant anything to her. They did not soothe her grated nerves. Only one thing could do that, and that was being outside. But that did _not _mean being allowed to take a nice stroll through Poisson's man-made gardens with their concrete flower boxes and ornamental trees.

_Fuck, I want to go back. I hate this place, he knows it, and yet he lured me here anyway. Damnit, I am _sick _of this! I miss the island, and the woods, and I am fucking _tired _of hiding my goddamned visio – _

A sudden stab to the forehead brought Zebbidy's rant to an abrupt end, lingering as a sharp reminder of what she had just seen.

_It must have been big for me to black out afterward, _she considered thoughtfully. _That hasn't happened in . . . gods, how long now? Twenty-some years?_

Or maybe it was just the stress, she tried to reason. Stress could bring on so many things. Believing that it affected everyone differently was her theory. _And though I hate to go all cloak-and-dagger, but it seems to affect me stranger than most._

A dull quivering movement near her hip jarred Zebbidy from whatever sleep still had a hold of her mind, albeit, gradually. With a wince, she closed her eyes, groaning:

_Shit. Time to deal with the warden. Hopefully Sands won't be completely impossible this time._

She paused, considering the thought that just passed through her head. Ten seconds later, she nearly burst out laughing.

_Oh dear gods, I_ must_ be going insane . . ._

**VVV**

_I wanna apologize for how short this chapter is. :( There was so much going on this weekend. Plus I have an English report due on Tuesday that has to be eight to ten pages long. Normally this would not be a problem – I've written longer in shorter periods of time – but the thing is, I'm only allowed to work on it in class, which is only thirty-five minutes long. -.9;; So lately I've been staying after school to work on it. Once again, I apologize. I really did want this chapter to be longer, but, thinking about it, I don't think there's anything else I wanted to get ouD t in this chapter. Next one will be better, though, I promise! It takes place during Poisson's party! :D_

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**Dawnie-7: **Oy, I am running late on my monthly good deed. (checks calendar) O.O! Eep, it's almost October. Ehhh, anyway, no she's not back. Hernandez just set Zeb off for some reason. But! (low, spooky voice) It will alllll be explaaaained soooon . . .

**morph: **Oh, cool :D I've had that déjà vu scene planned since the end of TLWH actually. At first I wanted it to take place right after Zebbidy's attack in the elevator. I had originally wanted her to run to her hotel room instead of the bar. Then have Sands come charging in, have Zeb swing around with a gun trained on him, and have Sands think '_Déjà vu?_' But I liked the bar scene so I put it off 'til now. :) I keep trying to filter her abilities throughout the story. Y'know, not letting too much out at once or making things _too _obviously. That's one thing that always annoys me: If the story is predictable. Unless it's meant to be that way – in a cliché, parody sorta sense – then it drives me up a wall.

**Lynx Ryder: **Eventually, Zeb _will _tell Sands about her visions, but he's not gonna believe her so she'll have to do a few things to prove it. I've got a few ideas in the works, so hopefully it'll be a good scene. Won't be 'til a little while, though. And I'm so glad you could picture the Sands/Ajedrez scene! I know it was in the movie, but the thing was I had forgotten the order of the dialogue in it. o.o;; I would've watched the movie again – wouldn't've bothered me in the least ;) – but my mom was busy watching '_The Last Samurai._' -.e (and people wonder why I don't like Tom Cruise) Nah, I can't see Lyn ever admitting to love either. Not even to herself – damn that voice in her head . . .

**fanfiction fanatic: **No, no, no . . . like I said to Dawnie-7, Hernandez just triggered the vision of Sands and Ajedrez. There _is _a reason for that, but it will be a while before it is explained. Oh, and I finally saw '_The Forgotten_' on Sunday. It was good; better than '_The Village_' by a long shot. I'd give spoilers but I won't just in case you don't want them. ;) I do recommend seeing it, though.

**DragonHunter200: **S'okay. My computer's been rather slow lately so I'm guessing it's another virus – damn thing, I just got it fixed! XO! But, anyway, I _do _have one more flashback planned. Then again, that last one with Sands, Lyn, and their father came out nowhere, so ya never know :) And I love your description of Liam! :D 'An island of innocence in a sea of CIA corruption.' I've always described him as sort of the black sheep of the group because Sands and Lynné (along with the government in general -.9) are both so diabolical and fiendish and negative, then there's Liam who is, both in attitude and appearance, the opposite of them. I can usually put up with whining from my family by playing the 'I'm Ignoring You' card, but, I gotta tell ya, sometimes it gets to be too much. 9.6; Thank you for sparing me! :D

o


	26. Some Enchanted Evening

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Twenty-Six: **Some Enchanted Evening

Anybody know why FanFiction won't let you post links in your stories? I have yet to figure that one out. It works for some people but then when others, like me, go to put a link in a fic it disappears whenever the story gets posted. Anyway, since I cannot provide a link for Lynné and Sands' DeadJournal, I'll just provide a link in my profile so it _can _be contacted by anyone who's interested. :D

**VVV**

The cheerful, metallic notes to '_The Entertainer_' rang distantly in her ear, but to Lynné they were blaring loud enough to have been projected through a megaphone. The tune was beginning to get to her, but she didn't let it show, though she was nearing the point where she thought might snap and throw her phone against the wall.

**_Self-control, _**the voice reminded her in its mock-patient tone.

_Fuck you, _was her sharp, irritated retort. _Come oooon . . . pickuppickuppickuuup . . ._

_**So d'you know what you're gonna wear yet?**_

_What? _she asked incredulously, wondering where the voice's latest question had emerged from. _I don't know. It's either the red thing or the white thing._

_**I'd go with the white thing. You could wear that short, blonde wig of yours with that one.**_

_Yeah, but white makes me feel –_

_**-- Like a viiir-iiir-ir-ir-gin.**_

_Cute, _Lynné replied dryly, the ringtone still buzzing in her eardrums. _But since I'm no longer the untapped maiden that used to be, that dress won't do._

"Ciao?" a low voice greeted over the subtle static of Lynn's cellular.

"Damiano, so nice of you to finally answer. How're things?"

"Agent Sands?"

Lynné felt a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth as she said, "Is everything set?"

"Yes," her hit man answered promptly. "Does this mean that I'll be going out tonight?"

She could tell by his tone that the assassin was surprised.

"I'll see you at our man's place. You know what to do."

"Of course," Stephan responded, knowing to keep things light in case their line was being tapped.

"Over and out," she said breezily and clicked off her phone. Carelessly tossing the streamline cellular onto her bed, Lynné turned around to face the red gown and the white dress that were hanging on the back of her closet door.

_**So you're going with the red one? I'd say the red one.**_

Lynné sighed, still mulling over which dress to choose. The short, flowy, white satin one would make heads turn, especially if she wore her wig. Then again, the voice had a point. The red one was, well, _red. _A much more flattering color, Lynné had always thought. It wasn't that she couldn't wear white, but with her skin color – combined with a pale blonde wig – would make her look like she was albino. Red, however, was simply ideal when it came to Lynné. She wondered absentmindedly why she didn't wear it as often as she wore black.

**Because wearing red makes you look like a slut, but wearing black makes you look like a bitch who wouldn't mind cutting someone's nuts off. **

_Oh yeah. There we go. . . . . but, y'know, if I put on some dark mascara and threw on some red lipstick, I could pass as –_

**_Don't fucking go there, _**the voice warned, stressed. **_Just pick something._**

Glancing toward the ceiling, Lynné turned her attention back to the two outfits in front of her. She looked them up and down as if sizing them up, trying to decide which was more worthy. With another sigh and an added shake of the head she nearly laughed at herself when she realized the obvious disadvantage she would have if she chose the white one. She ignored the voice's urging and continued to stare, almost trance-like, at the back of her closet door. And again, she sighed. Decisions, decisions . . .

**VVV **

"What are you supposed to be?"

Liam's head went up and away from the magazine in his hands. He blinked, his face slightly twisted in befuddlement. Glancing down at his attire, the thought that Sands had lost his sight again passed through his mind. How could he not know? Liam was dressed in a formal tux, only the vest he wore underneath the decorous dress coat was a vibrant red color, as was the inside of the ankle-length black cape that was draped across his shoulders. He had let his blond locks fall loose for once, surprised at how they now grazed his shoulders. His hair color didn't suit the character he was trying to portray, but then again, he hadn't been going for any vampire in particular. But, still . . . Sands should have recognized the look he was trying to go for. Vaguely, Liam wondered if he had heard correctly. He shrugged mentally. May as well find out.

"Isn' id obb-ee-us?" he mumbled through his uncomfortable false fangs.

"I'd say so," Sands agreed, "but there's always a chance that I could be wrong. So rather than make an idiot of myself by guessing your costume, I simply asked what you were supposed to be."

"Oh," Liam replied faintly, the remnants of a puzzled expression still marking his face.

"So," Sands began again, "what _are_ you supposed to be?"

Once again, the other agent gave him that incredulous stare, both eyes wide, each brow raised.

"I'm _Drahcoola_," he explained, still wearing his confused look.

Now Sands' eyebrows arched questioningly as he observed his fellow agent. "Vlad?"

"What?" Liam asked, perplexed. "No, de origibal."

"Vlad _was _the original," Sands said.

"Oh," Liam responded, a little put off. "I thoughd Bela Lugohsee wa' de origibal."

"Lugosi was in the original _movie_," Sands clarified, "but he wasn't the actual guy. Vlad was. He was the actual Dracula that inspired Stoker's story."

"Really?" Liam asked, impressed. "I dever knew his characder wa' based don a real person."

"Learn something new every day, Fusco," his fellow agent quipped, lazily taking a drag off his cigarette. Turning his gaze towards the stairway, he called, "Whenever you're ready, Lynné!"

"I'm coming!" his sister's voice returned.

"Take your time."

"I did," she replied evenly, sounding much closer than before. Simultaneously, Sands and Liam's heads spun around, both men honing in on the sound of her voice. There, at the top of the gleaming wooden staircase, stood Lynné. Rich, red satin filled their vision as they gazed up at her. The gorgeous crimson gown covered her slender frame nicely. Its crisp material was gathered up in an old-fashioned yet elegant bustle that seemed to fit the modern age dress.

Continuing upward, Liam noticed that somehow in her uncanny ability to accomplish anything successfully, Lynné had goaded her dark hair into curling ever so slightly. It was now piled divinely at the crown of her head. Several wisps hung down, framing the golden fabric that hid half of her face. The mask, adorned with three gold and red feathers at each end and studded with several faux rubies, concealed the area around her eyes and the bridge of her nose. It created a pretty, alluring face; an illusion to the menacing person that crouched behind it.

_Wow . . ._ was all Liam could think.

"I thought you were gonna pay tribute by going as Marilyn Monroe," Sands stated, shattering the admiring silence in once sentence.

"In this weather?" his sister asked, descending the stairway in her stylish, strappy black heels. "Of course not. It's freezing out."

"So you're not going as anyone in particular?" he wondered aloud.

Lyn shrugged offhandedly, saying, "In a way . . . I guess you could say I'm . . . brining back the look for the eighteenth century masked ball . . . and modernizing it a bit."

"Looks good," Sands commented indifferently and silently Liam agreed.

Nodding as if in agreement, Lyn asked, "And what are you going as? I thought you didn't do repeat performances."

"What d'you mean?" her brother asked, glancing down at his solid black outfit and staring back up at her questioningly.

"Well don't get me wrong, you make a good Lone Ranger, but I thought you went as him before."

Exasperated, Sands rolled his eyes behind the black mask that wound around them.

"Oh well, as long as you didn't make me go as Tonto this time," Lynné was saying when Sands cut her short.

"Zorro, Lynnie, _Zorro_."

She stopped, took in the wide-brimmed black chapeau on his head, the pristine sword at his side, the silver spurs attached to his boots, and the black gloves coating his hands, and grinned.

"And, Fusco, you're . . . Tom Cruise. '_Interview with a Vampire._'" Lynné inquired suddenly.

"Huh?" her partner replied stupidly, still lost in space. "No, no, I'mb Drahcoola," he explained, words slightly undistinguishable due to his fangs.

"And blonde," Lynné noted dubiously. She shrugged. "Okay."

"Très belle!" someone suddenly exclaimed.

Always on the alert, Sands, Liam, and Lynné whipped around to find Joséphine standing behind them, clothed in a pretty dress of royal purple. She smiled, her face full of awe. The three agents shared an uneasy glance they all knew that they were each thinking the same thing, but it was Sands who finally voiced it.

"How can you tell?" he asked carelessly.

"Je ne suis pas sûr," (I'm not sure,) she answered truthfully.

Sands nodded slowly, understanding.

"Je peux le détecter, je devine," (I can sense it, I guess,) Joséphine tried to explain. "Elle est . . . . . ."(She's . . . . . .)

Seeing the girl's struggle to find a word she did not know, Lynné offered, "Giving off a vibe?"

"Que?"

"A vibe, an affect, a drive," she began to explained.

"Puis-je venir?" (May I come?) Joséphine interjected suddenly.

Abruptly, Lynné stopped.

"No. No, _no _. . . do you _realize _what you just asked me, Josey? From your description it sounds like your family isn't the nicest bunch around."

"I know_ I_ was under the impression that you didn't like them," Liam added his input. "If you went with us, there'd be a good chance you'd find yourself back in their hands."

"Besides, this thing is for adults, kid," Sands explained. "I mean, you could _pass _as a midget just fine but you don't have a costume."

"Alors que dois-je faire?" (Then what am I to do?) the little girl demanded. "Vous ne pouvez pas me laisser rester ici moi-même!" (You can't let me stay here by myself!)

Sands' eyebrows rose.

"Can't we?" he countered.

_No, _Lynné murmured silently.

"Vous n'irez pas faire," (You won't,) Joséphine stated stubbornly. "Vous ne pas aucun autre temps. Quelqu'un restait toujours avec moi." (You wouldn't any other time. Someone has always stayed with me.)

"She's right," Liam admitted sheepishly. "Besides . . . she's just a kid. We're gonna be gone for how long?"

"Party starts at nine," Sands answered, "probably continues 'til midnight or until Poisson decides he's had enough of his guests."

**_Or, _**the voice began, **_until all hell breaks loose._**

_And when would that be? _Lyn questioned.

**_When ol' Eddie Poisson gets his comeuppance, dipshit._** **That's _when._**

_Assuming that our hit man is worth the cash we're paying him, _she reminded it.

"There, see? Midnight. That's too late for a child to be staying up. You're staying here, Josey." Without ever being absent from the conversation, Lynné added her two cents.

At once, the child began making her protests. "Mais, Mademoiselle --"(But, Miss --)

"Do you want to go back to your uncle?" It was a rhetorical question, and they both knew it even if 'rhetorical' was not a word in Joséphine's vocabulary. When the child supplied no answer, Lynné knew they had reached an understanding, whether either of them agreed with the arrangements or not.

"Listen," Sands began tiredly as he inserted himself into their conversation, "If you're worried about a kidnapping, don't. The doors, the curtains are closed, and all of us are taking our cell phones. If you hear anything –"

"Votre nombre est sur le cadran de vitesse," (You're numbers are on speed dial,) Joséphine finished quietly. "Je sais." (I know.)

"Good. That solves that problem," Sands approved without caring if the kid was disappointed or not. Turning to face his sister and her partner he adjusted the brim of his hat and gave the instructions: "Let's go."

As his sister walked silently past him, he followed her with his eyes. Without turning his head, he watched her make her way to the front door, the luscious red fabric of her dress shining in the dim light. It complemented her, he admitted thoughtfully, allowing her fair shoulders to be shown, as well as some of her bare back, but none of her tattoos could be seen, nor could her . . . leg.

_That's why she didn't wear the white one, _Sands murmured darkly, but any related thoughts were pushed away. Mexico was then, France was now, and they had a game to play.

**VVV**

Poisson had really outdone himself. Zebbidy had to hand it to him in spite of the surge of hatred she felt. Her eyes narrowed into sharp slits as she thought of how much money could have been given to art museums or national parks when instead it had been blown on lavish decorations, exquisite hors d'oeuvres, and a line of splendid musicians.

She watched from the indoor balcony that overlooked the front hall of the Poisson Mansion. They were trailing along, disappearing whenever they walked underneath the balcony. Zebbidy turned around and was given a clear view of the ballroom. She had to admit that she liked the way the large overlook gave her a visual on what was happening on each side of her. Gazing over the polished marble banister, she observed the guests below her. Already the stuck up, aristocratic snobs pilling up at the buffet table.

_Grubbing for worms, I'll bet,_ she thought sourly.

Her eyebrows rose the slightest bit as she spotted Vincent Poisson dressed up as the famed privateer, Jean Lafayette. Already he was deep in conversation with some scantly clad angel. Zebbidy shook her head, unsure as to who she directed the motion to.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could just see Alphonse (going as Napoleon Bonaparte) attempting to hit on someone half his age. This time Zebbidy _did _feel a pang of sympathy for the girl, but it quickly evaporated when she realized that if the young woman was naïve enough to fall for a scumbucket like Alphonse, then she _deserved _what she got.

And there, looking ever the tyrant, was King Louis XIV. With his hands on his hips, a long midnight blue cloak trailing along behind him, and stereotypical spiral ringlets perched on top of his head, Édouard Poisson's costume seemed rather predictable to Zebbidy. The man was an overbearing power-monger. The very concept of appearing as Caesar for his costume party seemed to fit like a glove.

Zebbidy sighed, taking her eyes away from the throngs of laughing and joking party guests.

The agents were going to be there. She was surprised that she hadn't spotted them already. Then again, Sands and Lynné seemed like the kind who would favor the fashionably late rule but only if they were the ones applying it.

She had known she had done something wrong the moment Sands had climbed through her window . . . again. His voice had been casual and easygoing but Zebbidy knew of the anger that lay hidden beneath the agent's carefree words. He had been pissed.

_Not that I blame him, but if he . . . fuck. Nah, he's not one to understand. Well, he might understand but that doesn't mean he'll _care

Sands had informed her that she'd broken the camera they'd given her, telling her that the agency was none too happy with her. _Yeah, well, they can go fuck themselves, _she had thought spitefully but didn't say.

He had calmly ordered her to wear her glasses/camera from now on, but Zebbidy had quickly axed the idea. Poisson would notice, she had said, if she suddenly started wearing glasses, he would begin to suspect something no matter what kind of excuse she gave him. Surely Sands had thought of that.

Yes, apparently he _had _but the CIA had insisted that he at least _try _to get her to wear them. Well, Sands had tried, albeit, not very hard. She had been given a replacement necklace. One that matched the outfit she was wearing, in fact. Vaguely, she wondered if Sands had chosen it on purpose, but the thought quickly flitted away when she spotted someone, a tall, beautiful someone, if slightly out of place amongst the crowd of French ladies and gentlemen.

_Rosa, _she remembered at once. She didn't care for her at all. Once she had been freed of the terrible after effects of her latest mind-wrenching vision, she had been able to determine that. Every word out of the woman's mouth seemed like an insult, every time she looked at her she felt edgy, everything about her sent Zebbidy's eyes flaring, No, she did not like Rosa Hernandez. Not even now when she was clothed in a beautiful, lace-trimmed, full-skirted gown of an innocent powder blue color. Resting on her head was a towering silvery-white wig that certainly topped off the look she was going for. It fit, Zebbidy supposed. After all, Édouard was attending his party as Louis XIV, would it not be fitting if his partner in crime accompanied him as the former king's arrogant – not to mention expensive – wife Marie Antoinette?

Twitching her nose slightly, Zebbidy felt the beginnings of a smile creep their way onto her face. She had just spotted a trio of not out-of-place but clearly American guests making their way around the marvelous ballroom. Slipping her mask – a deep green domino decorated with dainty, silver-tinted leaves that concealed her eyes – back on, she backed away from her lookout, skirts rustling silently along behind her. Time to go make her presence known.

**VVV**

"Is that her?"

"Does it _look _like her, Cruiser?"

"Hey," Liam whined pathetically to the woman who was picking on him.

"I thought it was Vlad," Sands remarked.

"Yeah," Lynné half-agreed, "but Vlad wasn't blonde, so I'm going with Cruise. We'd do well to stick with 'pet names' for tonight, anyway."

"Fine," Liam sighed, knowing he would be fighting a losing battle if he protested further. "Then what're your names gonna be?"

Sands rolled his eyes behind his black mask.

"Y'know, we really should've worked this out on the ride over," he muttered. "Fine, _Bela_, what do you want us to be?"

**_Izzy Onner and Ivonna Peealot, _**his voice snickered.

"Oh," Liam started, embarrassed and not really expecting the question. "Well . . . I, uh . . ."

Lynné rolled her eyes, disgusted and amused at the same time.

"Okay, I'll be Carmen, Sands can be . . ." She trailed off, waving her hand around expectantly. "Don Juan, I don't know. Whatever the hell."

Not even noticing the scowl Sands was now wearing, Liam smiled weakly, knowing that this was as close to sympathy as Lynné was going to get. He began to speak, but a sudden reaction from his partner stopped him short.

"Oh," she remarked softly, "I think I see someone I need to thank."

A coy smile etched upon her pale face, Lynné crossed the few feet that separated the agents from the Phantom of the Opera standing at the buffet table.

"Moreau," she greeted breezily.

"Mademoiselle S –"

"_Luvsit,_" Lynné corrected, her smile widening.

"Bunny?" Moreau quipped inquiringly.

"Carmen, Bunny," she sighed, still smirking. "Whichever floats your boat."

**VVV**

Sands shook his head at his sister. She was still off in the distance somewhere, just barely visible through the clusters of people, and he and Fusco were exactly where she had left them, milling around like dunces. They couldn't keep standing around like this. He and Liam weren't talking to anyone but themselves, and that looked suspicious. And being a suspicious object encompassed by a growing crowd of mobsters was _not _a good thing to be.

"Is that her?"

"_No_, Fusco."

"Oh my God," Liam gasped suddenly, a revolted look on his face.

Following his gaze, Sands found himself staring at what had to be a very . . . unpleasant . . . picture beneath the gaudily jeweled mask. It could have _passed _for a woman – a woman with very little neck – but then again, it could have just been a guy in drag. Judging by the several hairs that were sprouting from its chin, Sands guessed it was the latter but he could have been mistaken.

"Is . . . is that a _man . . . _or a _woman_?" Liam asked, disturbed.

Inhaling deeply, still surveying the gruesome sight, Sands replied, ". . . yes."

**VVV**

It was Sands who spotted her first. Like some kind of exotic goddess, Zebbidy Samhain descended the sparkling marble staircase, her hand resting lightly on the smooth railing. Beneath her mask, her eyes appeared tired, as if she had suddenly caught a bout of extreme anxiety and was torn between what she should be feeling. But whatever emotions rocked her body were hidden by her costume.

Surprisingly, Poisson had actually listened to her. And obliged. He had purchased her a dark green – but not _forest _green – gown that lightly dusted the floor with its long, full, and flowing skirts. Around the bottom of the dress, tiny, sparkling pears had been embroidered into an intricate pattern. They swooped up and down again, surrounding the entire hem of the gown with their miniature peaks. The opaque jewels had taken up residence in her hair as well. Scattered throughout the fancy knot that had been twisted around the back of Zebbidy's head were several pearls, matching wonderfully with her auburn hair.

A green, leafy mask was wrapped around her eyes, leaving just her mouth and the tip of her nose visible. What Zebbidy had to enjoy the most about her costume were the gloves. They were just as deep a green as the dress, yet she favored them above anything else. She had always been one for elbow-length gloves, and this pair fit her requests perfectly. They almost made her forget that the dress Poisson had bought her was a strapless.

Sauntering up to the agent, Zebbidy felt a wan smile growing on her face.

"Zorro. The look compliments you," she admitted truthfully.

**_Same could be said for her, _**Sands' voice commented wryly.

_Shut it, _he warned.

"Seen Hernandez yet?" Zebbidy asked.

"No," Sands replied as he watched Lynné and Fusco conversing with someone duded up as the Phantom of the Opera. "I'm beginning to suspect that she's camera shy, to tell ya the truth."

"Hmm," Zebbidy returned, smiling slightly. "Well, if you'd like to catch a glimpse of her . . ." She looked around, scanning the ballroom for the mysterious woman. ". . . she _is _here. I spotted her a while ago."

"That's . . . unassuring," Sands told her.

"I _tried_," she said dryly, but still smirking slightly. "You've gotta give me that much."

"Trying never gets you anywhere unless you succeed," Sands advised her, sounding as though he was quoting a warped philosopher. Zebbidy raised her eyebrows, feeling them brush against the inside of her mask.

"But you never try," she retorted smoothly, "then you _won't _succeed. And even if you _don't_, you'll never know until you've tried."

Sands glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, a beat passed, and eventually, he nodded.

**VVV**

"_La Lune trop bleme pose un diademe sur tes cheveux roux.  
_

_"La lune trop rousse de gloire eclabousse ton jupon plein d'trous.  
_

_"La lune trop pale caresse l'opale de tes yeux blases.  
_

_"Princesse de la rue soit la bien venue dans mon coeur brise._"

"I can't stand this song," Lynné confided as she and her partner danced smoothly to the slow waltz song.

"Oh?" Liam asked nervously.

"I shouldn't say that," she corrected herself. "I like the song, really, I do . . . but their vocalist does _not _meet my tastes. He sounds nasally to me."

"Oh."

"_The stairways up to la butte,_

_"Can make the wretched sigh,_

While windmill wings of the moulin shelter you and I . . ." 

He was still uptight, she could sense it. His darting eyes were a dead giveaway, but there was also the way he rested – which was an understatement – his hand on her hip. It was almost as if he was afraid to touch her. Normally Lynné would be grateful for this, taking pride in her ability to put people on the edge, but Liam had known her three, going on four years now. Four **years**. He really needed to loosen up, or else he'd give himself a heart attack.

"_Petite Mandigotte je sens ta menotte qui cherche ma main.  
_

_"Je sens ta poitrine et ta taille fine.  
_

_"J'oublie mon chagrin.  
_

_"Je sens sur tes levres une odeur de fievre de gosse mal nourri.  
_

_"Et sous ta caresse je sens une ivresse qui m'aneantit._"

Why were they waltzing again? Liam didn't know. Lynné had suggested it, saying something about being able to get a better view of their targets if they moved around a bit more. And what better way than heading out to the dance floor?

_God_, he didn't like this.

No, no . . . that wasn't true. It wasn't that he didn't care for dancing. It just made him uncomfortable. Plus, he had never had much experience in the area, though he doubted his partner had either. She could dance fairly well, but she seemed to be having a time focusing on both the Poissons and her feet all at once. It was so strange to see Lynné having difficulties, even ones as small as this.

_She must not like dancing any more than I do, _Liam mused. _Or maybe it's just the song. She's probably a champion swing dancer or ballerina or something. Wouldn't surprise me._

But that was a lie as well. Because somehow, despite the number of years he had known her, Lynné _always _managed to surprise him.

"_The stairways up to la butte,_

_"Can make the wreched sigh,_

_"While windmill wings of the moulin shelter you and I . . ._"

"Okay, there's our man," Lynné murmured cautiously into his ear. "Christ, look at the hair on that guy."

"Lyn – err, _Carmen_," Liam sighed, "I don't think you should be watching other people when you're supposed to be watching Poi –"

"I _am _watching him, _Vlad_," she hissed, annoyed. "Turn around, you'll see what I mean."

As she took her hands away from his, he moved around her counter clockwise and faced the opposite direction for just the briefest moment.

"Holy . . ."

"Yeah. And this is the big, bad Mafia don dressed up like some poof."

Her partner laughed quietly, and she allowed herself to smile.

"_Et voila qu'elle trotte la lune qui flotte, la princesse aussi._

_"La, da, da, da, da,_

_"Da, da, da, da, da,_

_"Mes reves epanouis._"

**_You two _are _sickening, do you know that?_**

_Bite me. Don't you have anything better to do than patronize me? If not, then that's pretty sad, sweetheart._

**You're _the fucked up whack job who hears the voice in her head – not me. So who's the sad one now?_**

_Just because I'm crazy doesn't mean I'm _sad.

**_Doesn't it? You tell me, Lyn. You keep insisting that there's a subtle difference between many things that are so very similar. Why not try and _explain _that difference for once?_**

****Lynné let out a harsh sigh, thoroughly disgusted with everything. The voice, its warnings, its taunts, its insistence for sex, money, no one . . . the way it insisted that she needed no one, and then how it would suddenly go off on a tangent about much it needed to get laid – for her sake, of course. It always considered them both, was always thinking of her, always looking out for her best interests . . . Fuck it.

_You can be crazy and sad at the same time, but only if you're dependent on something._

_**Like what? **_the voice prodded.

_Anything. Alcohol, gambling, cigarettes . . ._

_**Mmm . . . and what are **_**you _dependent on, Lynné Sands?_**

_Nothing._

_**Nothing?**_

_Nope. Can't think of a thing. Now could ya piss off? In case you haven't noticed, dancing is not my forte. I kinda need to keep a clear head if I want to watch for Poisson without making a complete fuckwad of myself at the same time._

_**Fine.**_

_Fine?_

**FINE.**

And the voice left, just as simple as that. All at once, Lynné felt herself relax in her partner's hold and she wondered mildly if he felt it too. She knew that the voice would be back – it would never be gone for good – but for once her head felt completely clear, free of criticizing voices and confused arguments and asinine worries.

As she successfully managed to produce a decent turn – with help on Liam's part – she saw Sands and Zebbidy talking animatedly near the buffet table. A thought hit her, but she refused to voice it (aloud or not) on the chance it aroused any ideas out of someone.

For the time being, she let it go, storing it in the back of her mind with the rest of her useful (and useless) information.

"_Les Escaliers de la butte sont durs aux misereux . . ._

_"Les ailes du moulin protegent les . . . amoureux._"

For once she felt at ease, not a feeling she experienced often. The CIA had been on her ass for the past six months . . . she and her brother both had had to cope with the after effects of the failed coup d'etat in Mexico . . . she had been through hell and back twice so far, and each time it was in the same country. If she was content tonight, then she owed it to herself.

This was nice, she admitted guardedly, though she wasn't to the point of wishing she could attend costumed balls more often. Still, one night was nice. _Tonight _was nice.

Little did she, Sands or anyone else know that even the nicest evenings could fall apart at the seams.

**VVV**

_I pushed myself into extending this chapter by a few more pages. I could have and would have stopped at the second scene – really, I would've minded ending this chapter with Sands' final thought there, but I was felt the need to continue and I'm glad I did. :)_

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**Dawnie-7: **(cackles evilly) Yes, I've got a lot more planned, especially for the next chapter. Hopefully it'll all play out.

**Lynx Ryder: **I got a laugh out of that line too, actually. :D O.O Hey . . . you _did _just stick up for Zeb. (music from '_The Twilight Zone_' begins to play mysteriously) You're right, I don't know if anyone's ever sided with someone who was fighting opposite of Sands. So far the English report is going okay. I made my deadline and I have a few ideas planned for it. Only problem I can see is (since the teacher's giving us the details in sections 9.6;) that I'm probably gonna be working on it for a good portion of the month. Blah, I don't like the arrangements. Not at all.

**morph: **Thank you! You have no idea how much it pleases me to hear that people can picture things in my story. I've said it before but I appreciate it very much. :D

**Invader Nicole: **Good to know you're caught up :D Also good to know that Sands and Zeb aren't being too obvious. Last thing I want is a Mary Sue, especially since Zebbidy already has two of the qualifications met (outrageous name and an attractive image 9.9). I noticed that, actually. O.o Josey seems to talk to Lyn more than anyone else, then Liam, then Sands, then Zeb. It's like she's picked favorites or something. Ah well. (point) Eunuch jokes! XD I love them. Any kind of Sands-Jack conversation is usually entertaining to me cuz they're both such interesting guys.

_Quick Note: _'La Complainte de la Butte' _is from the delightful movie '_Moulin Rouge_' and was written by the talented Rufus Wainwright. Just so everyone knows. :)_

_o_


	27. Party Crashers

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Twenty-Seven: **Party Crashers

Aww, I feel kinda bad for everyone. They were all having such a nice time and now everything's gonna change. :( I'm such an evil person.

Sands: Yes. Yes, you are. u.u

Sidney: XP Jerk . . .

Sands: (raises an eyebrow) That's it? That's the best you could come up with? Christ, you need a thesaurus . . .

Sidney: Well now you know what to get me for Christmas. u.u

Sands: 9.9

**VVV**

Stephan Damiano had broken into many houses over the history of his career as a hit man. Not once had he doubted his abilities to enter a home, find whomever it was he was assigned to, and get rid of them. Every time had been simple, quick, and easy no matter whom he was after.

This time, he wasn't so sure.

The CIA had not informed him who Poisson was going as that night. He knew what the man looked like from photos his employers had shown him, but if the man was wearing a costume. . . . he was shit outta luck, and that was all there was to it.

He would have rather not come to the party incognito, but if he didn't wish for his target's suspicions to be aroused, he had no choice.

_Red Death, stalking abroad, _he thought with amusement, glancing down that the robes of deep crimson and sparkling gold that swathed his form. _How very fitting._

Pulling the ghastly skull mask over his face and checking his guns once more as an extra precaution, Stephan prepared to sneak out of the room. But suddenly, the brass doorknob, reflected by the chinks of moonlight that had managed to escape through the gap in the curtains, began to turn.

Ten seconds; that was his estimate. He had about ten seconds before that door opened. Ten seconds to dive out of sight, ten seconds to hide, ten seconds to save his life. . . . . or maybe . . . ten seconds to _take _a life.

No. What if it was not Poisson behind that door? It could be one of his sons, a nameless unimportant crony, or perhaps it was just a lost partygoer who had wandered astray on their way to the bathroom. Whatever the case, Stephan could not be sure that it was his victim behind that door.

Five seconds . . .

Stephan darted out of sight, jumping onto the monstrous desk behind him, rolling over, and ducking behind it.

_Not a second too late, _he murmured to himself. He didn't hear it open, but the distinct '_click_' of a door shutting assured him that it had closed.

"Now, what is so important that it could not wait, mademoiselle?" It was a man with a deep voice and an even deeper French accent who spoke. But not to himself. There was someone – a woman – in the room with him.

"I have seen them." His female companion's voice was light, yet slightly indistinguishable due to what had to be Spanish heritage.

The man was surprised, Stephan observed. It showed in his voice above everything else when he demanded, "The agents?"

Stephan had his own mental picture of a woman nodding. "Si. Two of them. There may be others, but the pair I saw will provide the most use."

"They are the agents from the CIA, I suppose?"

Again, the woman responded, "Si, they were both wearing masks but I know it was them."

"You do . . ." the man murmured probingly.

"_Yes_," she hissed angrily. "You are acting as though you don't trust my judgement, Édouard."

At once the name set off an alarm in Stephan's brain, one that blared and rang so loudly he was certain it was giving him away. But the man and woman were continued their whispered conversation, completely ignorant of his presence.

_Perfect._

Silently sliding his gun out of his coat pocket, Stephan leapt from his hiding place, firearms loaded and ready.

King Louis XIV and his spouse Queen Marie Antoinette stared back at him, their eyes magnified ten times their normal size, complete shock taking control of their bodies. Unfortunately for Stephan, their surprise was short-lived.

Poisson, looking like a limp wrist dandy decked out in lavish, lacy, foppish clothing of navy blue and gold, was the first to recover. Not even giving the assassin the chance to fire, the cream puff plunged a frilly-cuffed hand into the pocket of his beige vest, returned with a black revolver. But before the gun was even half way out of its hiding placed, Poisson's lady friend had unearthed a pistol of her own and launched a series of bullets directly into the chest of Stephan Damiano.

The hit man – just an unknown assassin to the room's living occupants – crumpled instantly. Blood leaking from his chest, he fell, spiraling, to the ground, and Édouard Poisson and Rosa Hernandez watched it happen.

"Thank you, ma chére. Now, then," Édouard began as he calmly tucked his own gun away, "you were saying?"

Unaffected by her would-be murderer's sudden death, Rosa returned to her conversation at once, not even glancing at the man whose blood was seeping out of his torso, staining the dark green carpeting beneath him.

Unfortunately, the shots from her gun had echoed, reverberating throughout the room, bouncing down the arched hallways to where they finally reached the ballroom and the cheerful party guests who heard everything.

**VVV**

"Shit . . ." was the only word that came out of Lynné's lips as the undeniable sounds of a gun being fired rang throughout the ballroom. They were quiet, turned dull by distance, but she heard them none the less. And so, it seemed, did everyone else.

"I _thought _I told Damiano to use a silencer," she muttered furiously.

"That wasn't Damiano," Sands said quietly.

"What?"

"Did you hear how many shots went off? When I met the guy, I asked him how efficient he was. Said he only shoots a person three times: Chest once, head twice. The only time he does it more than that is when things have taken a turn for the worse."

"Seems like that's already happened," Zebbidy murmured as she too watched the carnage unfold before them.

Beside Lynné, Liam observed the once dancing and chatting guests through worried eyes as they now scrambled towards the front hall in their mad attempts to get outside and to safety.

"Someone's gonna get hurt," he insisted urgently. "What do we do??"

Lynné rolled her eyes, muttering, "CIA my ass . . ." before outlining her plan. "We do what we're supposed to. Someone, call the Company. I'd do it, but suddenly the concept of following anonymous gunshots is _muuuuch_ more appealing than contacting my employers."

"I'll do it," Sands sighed, acting as though he was doing her a huge favor.

"Oh, really?" his sister asked, feigning disappointment. "Damn . . . cuz I _would _have done it. After all, it may've meant talking to Cat again, and we hardly ever do that anymore."

"That's why I volunteered," Sands returned, grinning.

"Fine," Lynné dismissed offhandedly. "You call the heads, and Zeb, you stay here with him. I'm off to see what's become of our hit man. Fusco," she said sharply, "get your gun."

"What?" Liam sputtered, confused and concerned for his own well being. "Why?"

Throwing him that aggravating and at the same time irresistible 'don't-be-such-a-dumbass' expression, his partner replied, "You're with me."

**VVV**

_Stealth. Move quickly; move quietly. And pray that you don't get caught. You can't afford to make a sound. Cuz if you do, in a situation like this, you're as good as dead._

Fusco did not know this, apparently. He had been following Lynné along for some time now, his footsteps just as silent as hers, until his partner suddenly halted where she stood, and Liam, not noticing, came crashing into her.

"_Damnit_," she hissed as she stumbled forward. She shot a dangerous glare over her shoulder and Liam swallowed hard. Nervously, he eyed the small silver handgun in Lynné's hand, knowing that, sex or no sex, if irked enough, the woman would not hesitate to use it on him.

With a small nod of her head, Lynné indicated that she wanted Liam to follow her and disappeared through the open door that stood just a few inches to her right.

Taking a deep breath to assure himself that nothing bad would come of this, Liam cocked his gun and followed suit.

**VVV**

"Where the fuck are they? They shouldn't take this long . . ."

Zebbidy cast a worried glance at the agent beside her. The sentence '_I'm sure they're fine_' was on the tip of her tongue, just begging to be used, but she knew that saying it would only get a sharp retort out of Sands. The man was immune to solace. He simply would not allow himself to be comforted by anyone.

_Why, though? _she wondered sadly. _Fuck, I don't know why I even asked that. It's not like I'm gonna get an answer. May as well ask why I can't read his thoughts._

That was one thing about Sands that she couldn't figure out: His thoughts were stopped, dammed, completely blocked save for a few that Zebbidy figured were only the most important things going on inside the agent's head. So she couldn't read his mind. Fine. Whatever. But then why, _why _did she keep having visions about him? And what were they of? His past, future, mere ideas that passed through his obviously unbalanced mind? She didn't know, and she sure as hell wasn't about to ask.

_God, where are they, where are they, where are they . . . ? _Sands wondered feverishly, repeating the same question over and over again until he became tired of it and started on a new one. _What's taking so long, what's taking so long . . . ?_

Desperately Zebbidy wanted to tell him that everything was fine, that the other agents were all right, but she couldn't. Because for some reason, some strange unknown reason that she had long since given up trying to figure out, she knew that if she did, she would be very, very wrong.

**VVV**

They were gone. Lynné and Liam had followed the sounds of the bullets but – assuming that they had been lead to the correct room – whoever had fired them was gone. Or so they appeared to be.

"Watch the door," Lynné instructed without looking at her partner. Slowly, she edged her way towards the back of the room where the gargantuan desk stood, flanked by two stiff-backed couches on either side. No one was sitting on them, and the room didn't provide many places to hide . . . . except . . .

_Bingo, _she thought in momentary triumph when she saw a hand. But before she could give any warnings not to move, her eyes trailed past the hand, lingering on the arm it was connected to, and finally landing a the head that was familiar. _Too _familiar for her liking.

Damiano. _Shit._

"What is it?" Liam asked from his lookout. He had seen the grim expression on his partner's face, and he knew it could mean nothing good.

"Our hit man," she was about to begin but a rasping noise from the floor drew her attention away from Liam. Crouching down next to what she had believed to be a corps, Lynné strained to make sense of what it was saying. His words were short, breathless because they were being forced out through the burning pain in his chest. They were slightly garbled, barely audible, but Lynné understood them.

"Poisson . . ." the assassin gasped, eyes widening as the air caught in his lungs. Speaking was the last thing he should be doing. It would be wasting energy and adrenaline that he so sorely needed. But Stephan forced himself to go on. The assassin was dying and he knew it, but that didn't mean anyone else needed to go with him.

"Poisson . . ." he tried again in the same breathless croak. "Poisson . . . lui . . ."

He wasn't sure if Agent Sands understood Italian, but speaking in his native language was so much easier at the moment.

"Lui . . ." Lynné muttered, scraping through her mind to remember what that meant. "_He,_" she remembered at last,_ "_He shot you."

Stephan shook his head, cringing at once at the pain the movement brought on. "No," he continued desperately. "Lui . . . era _qui_ . . . ma lui . . . lui non . . ." (He . . .was _here _. . . but he . . . he didn't . . .)

"Then who did?" the agent pressed.

"Non so," Damiano wheezed, slipping before her eyes. "Esso . . . era . . . era . . . una donna. (It. . . was . . . it was . . . a woman.)

"A _woman_," Lynné repeated, intrigued.

"Sì . . . e . . . stanno andando dopo voi . . ." (Yes . . . and . . . they are going after you . . .) came Stephan's weak response. His eyelids flickered, lashes beating rapidly, and then . . .

_He's gone, _Lynné realized, not noticing how dramatic the thought sounded.

Getting to her feet, she turned to face her partner.

**_Watch you're head, _**the voice advised carelessly

_What? _Lynné wondered, distracted.

But before she could take the voice's warning into consideration, something solid connected with the back of her head. Stars went off before her eyes, flying in every direction as blackness slowly ate away at her sight and Lynné tumbled to the ground.

**VVV**

Sands eyes burned from so much work, but he continued to search for the pair of missing agents, ignoring sharp stinging sensation both of his orbs were experiencing. Scanning the nearly bare dance floor he shook his head in disgust as the few stragglers ran screaming from the room. So far, an endless number of vampires (from Draculas to Lestats) and plenty of women in red gowns had entered his line of vision, but not one of them had resembled his sister or her partner remotely.

"Damnit," he cursed under his breath, "Do you see any . . . Zeb? Zebbidy??"

When his charge didn't answer, Sands spun around, eyes darting in every direction. But Zebbidy Samhain was no where to be found, a fact that only added to his irritation.

_Damnit!! Why the fuck would she do that!?_

**_I dunno, _**the voice answered. **_Just to piss you off._**

_Wouldn't surprise me._

_**Think she may have gone upstairs – **_

_What!? Why the fuck didn't you say something!?!_

_**Because I didn't **_**see _her leave, shithead, I was merely _suggesting_ it._**

_Well, gee, thanks for clearin' that up for me – _

**_BANG!!!_**

****Sands eyes widened in surprise as a sudden hail of gunfire burst through the pair of double doors behind him. No sooner had the doors been reduced to splinters when a trio of thugs came bursting through their remains, each one holding two firearms that was twice as long as their gorilla-like arms.

Through their menacing, beady eyes the goons searched the room over for their rogue prey, but he was nowhere in sight. As soon as the shots had begun, Sands had wasted no time in flipping one of the buffet tables over – sending it's contents flying everywhere in the process; hey, it wasn't _his _house, so what if he made a mess, what did he care? — and diving behind it. Unfortunately, the mobsters, stupid as they were, quickly zeroed in on his hideout and sent a series of bullets his way.

Now using his rinky-dink shelter as a shield, Sands whipped out a pistol of his own and returned the favor. Without looking, he fired several shots over the top of the long table. He thought he hit one of Poisson's cronies, but he couldn't tell over the hammering sound of the bullets hitting the back of his refuge.

_Shit. This thing isn't gonna last forever._

No sooner had the thought entered his mind when a bullet – and a cluster of wood – entered his left shoulder. Biting down hard on his lip to contain his cry of pain, Sands twisted around, shipping ten bullets in the Mafia goons' direction.

Silence.

_That it? _He didn't dare begin to think so.

**_Yeah, _**the voice agreed, **_they could be playing possum for all you know._**

_Too right, they could._

However, he could _not _just sit around on his ass waiting for the idiot brigade (he wasn't sure if he meant the thugs or Liam, Lynné, and Zebbidy) to find him. It was time to come out of hiding.

Pistols still smoking, Sands leapt to his feet prepared for a fight that never came. All three of the men were dead. But more may come, he reminded himself, so he kept his guns ready. Giving the bloodied cadavers one last revolted look, Sands stalked out of the ruined ballroom, his feet crunching on the remains of the party food on the way out.

**VVV**

Zebbidy had indeed gone upstairs, seeking homage in her bedroom. Well, maybe not homage exactly. Could walls, no matter how thick, protect her if a stream of bullets were suddenly hurled her way? She didn't think so.

_Damnit, where the hell did I put that gun?? _she thought worriedly as she pulled drawer after drawer from her vanity and dumped each of their contents on the floor. Fruitless and disgruntled, she moved on to her closet, irritated that Poisson had made it a walk-in model.

_Where is it . . . ? Where _is _it!? _she wondered, never pausing in her hurried search.

After shoving aside a pair of gray dress slacks, Zebbidy was treated to the small, yet very familiar barrel of a handgun. She flung the rest of the clothing aside, making a wild grab for the weapon. It was loaded. She sighed, past the point of hoping that she would find no use for it.

The sudden sound of gunfire reached her ears and Zebbidy had to work to keep calm. They had come from the ballroom, and she knew it. By the sound of it, either a whole fleet of Poissons men had opened fire on the dance floor or one person had gotten a little trigger-happy with a machinegun. No matter which it was, neither could be any good for the ballroom. The ballroom where she had left Sands . . . . . _Oh gods!_

Snatching the gun up and slinging her large purse over her shoulder, Zebbidy barreled out of her closet. Everything seemed blurred, as if someone had taken an eraser and rubbed out everything around her. Through the blank, white world Zebbidy ran, hurrying past the many hangers full of beautiful clothes, past her bed and her vanity and her towering chest of drawers, through the doors of her bedroom and down the hallway where she nearly tripped on the spiked heels of her shoes. She didn't stop until she reached the ballroom, and until she did, she prayed that she wasn't too late.

Her breath caught in her throat as she reached the overlook. Behind her was the ballroom where she had originally thought the shots had been fired. Observing the punctured double doors, hole-filled walls, and battered buffet table that now resembled the Swiss cheese that had once been placed upon it in a silver platter, Zebbidy saw that her suspicions had been correct. However, aside from a trio of carcasses lying in the middle of the once spotless dance floor, there was no one in sight.

Letting out a sigh to vent off her frustration, Zebbidy turned around to see if there was any life on the other side of the balcony. When her eyes landed on the two figures below her, she stopped, her body just as stiff as the corpses behind her.

**VVV**

Sands had to agree with his sister; in situations like these, there was only one word a person could utter that would fit the setting perfectly: _Shit._

All hell had broken loose no more than ten minutes ago, Lynné and Liam's fates were unknown, and he had yet to find Zebbidy, although he _had _run into a _very _nice man toting a gun when he had darted out into the front hall.

_**Don't just stand there, genius, **_the voice chastised. **_Shoot the fucker! . . . _Now_, damnit!_**

_Fine, fiiine . . ._ Sands sighed, taking aim, and firing half a round of bullets into the goon before the man even had a chance to get his hand to the trigger of his own weapon.

_That was easy, _Sands thought reasonably.

**_Don't be so sure, _**the voice warned. **_Here come some more targets. Apparently, those thugs you just killed had friends._**

****Raising his gun, Sands narrowed his eyes at the new pair of mobsters and fired. A sudden yelp of pain from the shorter of the two brought a satisfied smirk to the agent's face, but he wasn't out of the woods yet. Training his gun on the remaining thug, he prepared to fire . . .

. . . and stopped dead. He couldn't fire, he couldn't move his _fingers _. . . he _couldn't . . ._

He couldn't . . .

He couldn't; he was rooted to the ground. It wasn't because he had realized that killing people was wrong. He knew that, he'd known it for years, he just hadn't cared. He didn't now, come to think of it, so he knew that what his suddenly frozen posture was not brought on by guilt. Regret was _not _sinking in. If it hadn't when he was a kid, it wouldn't now.

Something had moved. It wasn't the Mafia member taking aim, it wasn't a bullet from his gun, though Sands knew it wouldn't be long before one would fly. Something behind the thug had moved and at once Sands' attention honed in on that.

It all seemed to happen in slow motion. Everything seemed to stop save for one thing. One of the double doors that led into the grand hallway inched open, revealing half of a tall, slender figure. A woman, one dressed in a pale blue gown that had been decorated with elegant, berry-colored bows here and there, emerged from behind the door. A perfectly manicured hand attached to a wrist that was edged in lace laid lightly on the shining doorknob. Slowly, a face came into view. The towering silver curls had been discarded, allowing black tresses to cascade down the woman's back and spill over her shoulders. Chilling blue eyes glared at him from the crack in the door. They were so cold, cold enough to freeze the blood in his veins, cold enough to make him stay where he was instead of ducking for cover. Her mask was missing, and, though Sands knew had never seen her before, he knew who the woman was.

_Rosa . . ._

He tried to shoot, run, scream, anything, but he couldn't. Seeing that face behind those doors had turned his body to stone. Like petrified wood, Sands stayed rooted to his spot on the polished marble floor. Bullets flew by and through him but he made no move to stop them. He merely stood there, stock-still, unable to move a single limb. And slowly, biding its time, darkness unfolded, overtaking everything in its path, suffocating him as it conquered the light.

**VVV**

_Finally! I've had that ending planned out in my head for so long! Longer than anything else. This wasn't even how I originally planned for it to happen, to tell ya the truth. Originally_, Zebbidy _was supposed to be in Rosa Hernandez's position, but then things got turned around a bit. Zeb was never intended to be evil, but the original scene is hard to explain without leaking out a few clues to the rest of the story. So I'll just shut up and get to thanking my reviewers. Mwaha . . . evil cliff-hangers have returned at last!_

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**Lynx Ryder: **I've never had the chance to go to a costume ball either, though I've always wanted to. :( (wistful sigh) Ah well, someday along the road, hopefully. It's so cool that you read the scene and listened to that song! I've wanted to stick _'La Complainte de la Butte' _in this story for the longest time, I just didn't know where it would fit. Yay! I thought that seemed like a Sands thing to say, too. Thanks for telling me. :D I was really skeptical about having anyone do any kind of dancing because there's always the chance it'll turn out sappy and cliché. Then the thought of Lyn using it to her advantage came to mind, so that's how the dance scene came to be. :)

**Dawnie-7: **I was really debating on Sands costume for a while. It was a competition between the three masked heroes: Zorro, Don Juan, and the Lone Ranger. I didn't wanna go with Don Juan, actually, because I thought it would seem a little too blatant, even though I _did _think that Johnny Depp was at his cutest when he played Don Juan. And Lyn may be rubbing off on you, but Tom Cruise is beginning to edge his way into my brain. (grips head) _Nooo! _It just seems like everywhere anymore. I can't go anywhere without hearing about him. 9.6;;

Sands: Just admit that you like Tom Cruise and get it over with.

Sidney: -.9 I _don't. _He comes off as a creep to me.

Sands: 9.9 You don't _know _that he's a creep.

Sidney: I never said that he _was_, just that he comes _off _as one. XP

**The Gilatas Monster: **Yeah, too many references in that chapter. Though I don't think there can ever be enough. :) And of course I brought Stephan back! I couldn't really introduce him and then just let him disappear, could I? You should know that I delve too deeply into characters to lead them to nowhere by now, Steph D. u.u

_And now's when I leave a few notes that I always forget to make . . . . Y'know, I should really just make an extra chapter once all of this is said and done. That way, I can say what I thought about each chapter _and _add in any relations to movies, books, plays, or TV shows at the same time. But, anyway . . ._

References Made in the Last Chapter: '_Like a Virgin_' by Madonna, but if anybody's seen the movie '_Moulin Rouge_' then it's the same song Zeidler sings to the Duke whenever he tricks him into not leaving by telling him that Satine is confessing. Marilyn Monroe is in there, of course. Still don't know how she manages to slip her way into my OUaTiM stories, but she does. Moving along, Bram Stoker's Dracula is mentioned, as is the inspiration for the story Count Vlad Dracula (surprise, surprise, Sands wasn't lying; the man really existed). You could say that there's a _partial _reference to the movie '_Ed Wood_' in there as well whenever Liam says he's going as Bela Lugosi. Zorro and the Lone Ranger are mentioned, of course. Also, one may find the Zorro-ref funny because Antonio Banderas stared in the most recent Zorro movie. Lynné blatantly brings up Tom Cruise and his movie '_Interview with a Vampire,_' then we have her associate, Moreau, going as the ever-amazing Phantom of the Opera – if you haven't read the book, watched the (original, silent film version of) the movie, or seen the musical, then do it! You won't regret it! All of the Poissons went as famous figures in French history and/or well known figures in American history, in case no one noticed. Vincent Poisson went as privateer extrodinare Jean Lafayette cuz he was a rebel in a way and so is Vincent. Then I felt that Alphonse fit Napoleon Bonaparte cuz they both come off as rather weak when in reality they can both turn very nasty very quick. And, finally, Édouard' Poisson's costume _had _to be Louis XIV. They were both tyrants, they both favored lavish and expensive furniture, homes, and clothes. I could go on, but then I'd be shadowing Rosa's costume. I felt she should go as Marie Antoinette, not because they're anything alike, as you'll soon find out, but because she needed to fit in. Really, I'm sure she would have rather gone as Queen Isabella of Spain (only famous female from the Latino area I know of, sorry o.o;) but that would kinda stand out a bit. Plus I have this picture of Queen Marie in my head that needed to be let out. So, is there anything else I missed? I got the reference to the song _'La Complainte de la Butte' _in the last chapter, so that's covered. Ah well. If I forget anything, let me know! :) Now . . .

References Made in THIS Chapter: Really, the only thing I found was the _other _Phantom of the Opera reference: Red Death. During the masquerade ball in the book/musical/movie, the Phantom interrupts the festivites by showing up in these solid crimson robes with gold trim and a skull mask (and a really great hat, too. Many feathers . . . .). I couldn't have a costume party and leave that out, I just couldn't. But I think that's it. Sorry if this was a pain or anything, I'm just tired of forgetting to mention little things like this at the end of each chapter. Hopefully this bit will help me remember in the future. :) Thanks for your reviews, guys!

o


	28. Seeing is Decieving

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Twenty-Eight: **Seeing is Decieving

While writing this story, I figured that I'd need a better understanding of the human mind before I went and wrote a character like Sands let alone created one like Lynné. So, in order to do that, I needed to delve into psychology a bit. Veeery interesting stuff. For instance, the cause of stigmata may lie within a person's own mind. Scientists are beginning to suspect that people _think _that they're really bleeding from the wrists, ankles, or head, and if they concentrate hard enough on it, they will trigger something in the mind that causes said limbs to bleed. _This _is why it usually occurs in devoutly religious people; they've had the image of the crucifix imprinted in their mind all of their lives, therefore it makes sense if they're wrists or ankles bleed. Out loud they may be trying to convince themselves that they'll stop bleeding and that the wounds will heal, but after seeing the visible evidence, it's kinda hard to convince yourself of that, y'know?

Sands: _I _know. But I think you could simplify that a bit. And what does this have to do with anything?

Sidney: (defensively) I'm getting to that. u.u; A better example would be catching a cold. Your throat may be sore and you may be a little congested, but you're not _really _sick. You feel lousy and don't wanna go to school, so you may just repeat to yourself over and over again that your throat hurts, you feel like hell, you can't go to school, etceteras. But, really, it's in your mind; you're convincing yourself that you're sick when you really _aren't. . . . _Unless you are, then go see a doctor. O.o

Sands: And this has to do with the story . . . _how_?

Sidney: _Fiiine_ . . . if you really _must _know . . . Certain things trigger other things in the mind. Seeing the crucifix, a person begins to think about how painful it must have been, and they begin to bleed from the writs – mind you, this has to be some intense, long-contemplated thinking you're doing, after all, it's just a theory scientists have. Also, feeling terrible, a person doesn't want to go to work or school, and so they begin to believe that they really are extremely ill.

Sands: (holds out his hand expectantly) -.6?

Sidney: 9.9 And seeing a woman who you mistake for the lover who betrayed you may cause a person to freak out, panic, and bring back horrible memories of living in darkness, therefore resulting in losing your sight . . . _again_.

Sands: u.u _Thank_ you. . . . . . o.o What?

**VVV**

A pale hand flew to her mouth as Zebbidy barely managed to contain a gasp. Her eyes widened in horror only to squeeze shut a few seconds later as she cringed. A bullet had pelted through the air, ripping through the CIA agent who stood below her. How he could bear to stand after being shot so close . . . what if his lung had been punctured, she wondered frantically. She bit down hard on her fingers to keep from screaming, never mind the blood that filled her mouth. The only thing that mattered now was Sands. What was _wrong _with him?? He had just been shot . . . had the bullet gone through the left side of his chest instead of the right he would have died.

_Do something! _she urged, though she didn't know if it was an order for herself or a silent plea for Sands. _Goddamn it, what's wrong!?_

The scream that had been contained inside her throat finally escaped in the form of a small cry as Zebbidy watched Poisson's gunman embed another bullet in the agent's body. Still, Sands remained motionless. This new bullet, unlike the previous one, had only clipped him. It had torn through his torso, but it had also taken a hunk of his skin and a long stream of blood along with it. Grinning in satisfaction, the mobster raised his gun to fire again.

_I'll never get down there in time, _she thought in despair. _Oh, _gods, _what do I do . . . ?_

It came to her slowly, unwanted and without her consent, but sure enough the answer came to her. As horrible, monstrous, and ruthless an answer it was, Zebbidy knew that it was her only option. Finally, she looked down, and her eyes landed on the small pistol in her hand.

No . . . it would be wrong. By doing it she would be breaking the most meaningful, the most sacred rule she knew . . . She'd be harming the innocent.

_But that guy's not exactly innocent . . . and I'd be doing it to protect another . . . _

Her vibrant green eyes, so full of concern, only had to hover on the bleeding, unfluctuating CIA agent for a fraction of a second before she made up her mind.

Even from her distant perch on the balcony, Zebbidy could see the thug's thick, callused finger begin to tighten around the trigger of his firearm. Spreading her feet for support, Zebbidy trained her gun until it was perfectly in line with the mobster's head. It would be the least painful way, that was the least she could do.

Before she could back out of her decision, before anything rose to remind her that what she was about to do was wrong, that there would be no turning back after this, that she would forever taint herself if she continued . . . a shot rang out, ricocheting off of the arched walls of the spacious hallway. It vibrated, the horrible, haunting sound resounding over and over again all around her. But it never reached Zebbidy's ears for they were filled with a noise that was by far more terrible. It was a noise that would stay with her until her dying day, a noise that would leave an imprint on her mind. It was the sound of a body falling to the ground as all life was drained from it, a noise that caused Zebbidy to go temporarily deft as she pelted down the stairs.

**VVV**

He wanted to scream, to yell his head off so badly it hurt. But he couldn't. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction. Instead, he settled for propelling his tightly wound fist into the smooth, stone floor beneath him. Despite the force of his abuse, the only sound he received was a dull _'THUD._' Not good enough.

With all the strength he could muster, he slammed his gun into the floor with such brutality that it was bound to leave a crack that ran along the entire hallway. The vibrating '_BANG!!_' that shook the world around him assured him of that. It echoed painfully in his head, but still it wasn't enough.

Again, he pounded his fist into the floor, and felt the jagged ends of bullet shells dig into his skin, but he didn't care. The urge to howl was still with him, and he would fight it. He had to. Even if it meant total self-mutilation, he would fight it.

**VVV**

Zebbidy froze where she stood, unable to keep the air inside her lungs any longer.

She had seen many cadavers in her day, but never one this gruesome, never one that had been killed by her own hands.

_Gun, _she reminded herself forcefully, _I killed him with a _gun _Therefore, that's not actually killing him myself . . . right?_

No one answered, not that she had expected anyone to. At least, not around here. As Zebbidy contemplated this while she hurried down the staircase, a thought struck her.

_I broke it . . . I broke the rede . . . I'll never be able to go back now. They'll know. Someone will have had to have seen that, and they'll alert the Council . . . I'm slandered their name – _my ­_name! They won't let me live that down. They'll banish me . . . oh, gods, where will I go . . . ?_

The panicked ramblings quickly evaporated when a small, gasping noise came from behind her.

Her eyes filled with pain, Zebbidy watched as the agent, who had remained standing even as two bullets had pierced his body, collapsed before her eyes. Sprinting down the last four steps, she rushed to his side, green skirts whipping around her.

**VVV**

_Oh God . . . What . . . what happened?_

_**Rosa**_the voice answered simply, sounding positively evil. **Rosa _happened._**

_W-what? _Sands managed to choke out as he stared around wildly. Nothing met his eyes, unless one counted darkness and Sands didn't.

**_You saw Rosa,_** the voice explained, speaking in its slow tone that was reserved for moments like these it thought Sands had said 'What?' too many times. **_Then you couldn't move. Then that big, hulking man over there –_**

_What big, hulking man?_

_**. . . . What? Oh, **_the voice said in mock-surprised, sneering as it played dumb. **_I understand now . . . You're _BLIND_ again, aren't you?_**

_No . . . _God, he hated how lost and helpless he sounded now. _But that's because this is a dream. A dream . . . this is another. . . _fucking _dream sent to me by That Bitch. None of this really happened . . . I'm really asleep . . . I'm just coming undone. That's what always happens before I . . . wake up . . ._

He waited. Anticipation gnawed at him, but he ignored it. Any second now he was going to wake up, just like every other time. Whenever things got ugly, whenever he lost his sight, he would always have to wait – suffer through it for a few minutes before being treated to the welcome light again. This time should be no different.

Except nothing happened.

**_See? _**the voice chided. **_Told ya._**

_No . . . No, no . . . I'm not . . ._

_**Not what? **_it asked innocently. **_Blind? 'Fraid so, Sheldon._**

_Oh my Christ . . . . oh God . . . I can't be . . . _how

**Rosa**, the voice answered promptly. **_Ya saw her, froze up, went blind . . . Nice job, there, sport. Way ta go._**

_That sounds like a good idea, _he agreed thoughtfully.

**_What? I didn't sugge –_**

_I'm getting' the fuck outta here._

_**You – what the fuck? Sands!**_

****He didn't need to try to ignore the voice's protests. Everything moved in a blur, even though Sands found himself engulfed in darkness once again. He tried to run, jog, skip – anything to get away from the blackness that surrounded him – but found that he couldn't. A pair of arms were encircling him.

His immediate reaction was to wrench them off and bolt, but for some reason his left arm wasn't functioning properly. He couldn't move it.

_Oh shit, _he gasped, loosing it. _I never left. I . . . Mexico . . . I'm still there . . . I'm still in fucking Mexico! It's still the Day of the Dead!!_

Again, he attempted to run, but his effort was wasted. All that happened was a mere drainage of energy. The arms were still around him, but they had done nothing more than that. And suddenly he realized. They were not the harsh, brutal, muscular arms of a Mafia crony. They were delicate, warm, and oddly comforting amidst the painful whirlwind he had been thrown into. They were arms that belonged to a person, not a man-turned-machine from Poisson's mob. They belonged to a woman, who was whispering quietly to him, assuring him that everything would be all right, that he would be okay, that he just needed to calm down . . . breathe . . .

**VVV**

"_Shh_ . . .It's all right, you're okay . . ."

To Zebbidy, the words sounded cheap, phony, like false reassurance. How could _anything _be okay when they were stuck like this!? But if she could just get the man in her arms to breathe, then everything would start looking a lot better. For the both of them.

**VVV**

Through his ever-changing haze, Sands was vaguely aware that his head was being pressed against a woman's chest – her _generous_, _abundant _chest – but he couldn't bring himself to think of anything beyond that. What would be the point? He couldn't see them. Imagination was one thing, but the real thing was a whole other story.

**VVV**

_Okay, this one was _really_ short. I cannot stress how sorry I am for that, but – and this'll sound annoying – but that was all I wanted to get out in this chapter. If there was anything else, I can think of what it could be. But! Since I finished it earlier, that means that the next chapter will probably be longer :D! _

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**Dawnie-7: **lol, I couldn't help but notice how in the movie Sands, who is usually so calm and collected, was panicking when he learned that the cartel was on to him. Despite his efforts, he _did _freak out, and that's kinda what gave me the suspicion that, in the right circumstances, he does _not _do well under pressure. But, no, I wasn't kidding, sadly. :( Things went downhill and fast for Sands and Company. Aren't gonna get much better either, unfortunately. But the next chapters are (hopefully) bound to be interesting! :)

**Lynx Ryder: **Don't worry, I won't keep you in the dark (saying this lightly o.o;;) about Rosa for long. I'm with you though, I always though it was a pretty name. Too bad she turns out to be such an evil person, but c'est la vie.

Sands: Enough with the damn French. 9.9 I get my fill from that kid Lyn dragged home with her.

Sidney: XP Jerk. Wait, 'bewitching??' o.o Thank you! I've never gotten a comment like that before! :D

**DragonHunter200: **(ducks for cover) I will! Trust me, everything will be all right in the end. I can't say any more than that without leaking plot information, but everything will work out eventually. And you said 'groovy!' :D I love that word and don't use it as much as I used to. And I'm glad you enjoyed the action. God knows I'm not used to writing it 9.6;;

**The Gilatas Monter: **(still hiding under her desk) Sorry! I knew you'd hate that but I never said he was dead! And Lyn and Liam will show up soon, Zeb _did _help Sands, and Rosa will get her cumuppance. u.u And Stephan will be, eh . . . avenged, I guess. Although I really don't know who would avenge him . . . Moreau maybe? Yeah. That's who. Cuz they were really secret lovers. I just forgot to mention it until now. u.u;;;

o


	29. Traveling Through Darkness

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Twenty-Nine: **Traveling Through Darkness

Geh!! I had this whole chapter written and ready last night!! But then I suddenly decided to bump everything except for the last scene (which was the first scene originally) forward by one chapter. Why? In all honesty, I didn't think I'd written Sands' pain in enough detail. I'm horrible, I know, cuz he's already been through so much but ya know ya love it. So I'm sorry if this is a little late, but keep in mind that that means that the next chapter _will _be longer – and the spelling and grammar will probably be better too 9.9 – as will the chapter that follows since I'll have even more time to work on it. :)

**VVV**

Like a great, black desert Poisson's personal parking lot gaped at her, stretching on endlessly without a single form of life in sight. It's glossy pavement reflected like an eerie lake in the moonlight. It chilled Zebbidy but not as much as Sands. Unbeknown to Zebbidy, the agent could not even see the barren strip of blacktop but he was freezing nonetheless. Shock, Zebbidy guessed. If she didn't get him to a hospital soon – ax that. No hospitals. If _she _didn't trust them, then Sands certainly wouldn't.

She could take him back to the house, but the thought was destroyed as quickly as it came. If she brought the agent to the Demio's home, then there was the risk that they would be followed, and that could endanger their lives as well as lives of Liam, Lynné, and Joséphine. Assuming that that's the little girl was, of course. The hulking blue vehicle Zebbidy recognized as Liam's SUV was still in the parking lot. That must have meant that the other agents were still inside . . . but . . . she couldn't go back . . . not before she helped _him_.

Stealing the SUV was a bad idea. If Liam and Lynné _were _inside the mansion, then they might need it to make their own getaway. She could not risk endangering their lives anymore. It was bad enough she planned on leaving them. But the parking lot was nearly deserted; how could she – Zebbidy couldn't suppress a grin as her eyes fell on a pricey, dark green vehicle. Just what they needed.

"Can you walk?" she asked Sands tentatively.

He managed a small nod but nothing more. Concern flooded her but she kept her head level. If she lost it and became nothing more than a weeping pansy, then she wouldn't be helping Sands at all. Gently, she slung the man's uninjured arm around her shoulders so she could act as the crutch they both knew he needed so badly.

Sands' head hung like a heavy weight on his shoulders but his mind was clear enough to at least make sense of what was going on and what was expected of him. Right now, his brain was telling him to lift his feet. Fuck that. His legs felt unmovable, dead, he may have even gone as far as saying that they felt farce like Lynné's. And here he was being told to _move _them?

_I revive the proposition of 'Fuck That,' _he offered tiredly. He couldn't imagine anyone disagreeing with him. After what happened that night, he was surprised he could even think straight.

**VVV**

"What're you doing . . . ?" Sands heard himself ask as a pair of kind, merciful hands eased him down onto something cushioned. The back seat of a car, perhaps. He doubted it was something nice like a couch or a bed. Yes . . . right now he was probably being driven some remote point in the middle of nowhere. That way, Poisson Mafia could torture the cocky son of a bitch who'd tried to put them out of business without disturbing the citizens of Paris.

"Laying you down," a voice, one just as saccharine as the hands, answered quietly. "You'll injure yourself further if you don't. Either way, it's not good to be moving around in your condition."

"My condition . . ." he echoed stupidly, blinking in confusion.

"You were shot," the voice replied. "Twice in fact – no . . . three times. I just noticed the one in your arm."

Sands shifted, turning his face towards the welcoming embrace of the car seat. Dully, almost carelessly, he muttered, "I never have luck with that arm . . ."

"Oh?" the voice – most definitely female – asked mildly.

"Yeah," he replied, feeling his eyes growing heavy. "That's why I always use a fake one . . ."

A thoughtful, "Hmm . . ." was all she had to say. Probably didn't know what he was talking about. Hell, maybe she thought he was crazy – he wasn't about to correct her because then he'd just be wasting energy on a fight he could not win.

He heard her get up – she must have been sitting next to him as she helped him into the car – and depart, shutting the door behind her. The sound of a car door opening soon followed, as well as an odd ripping noise, almost as if she was tearing the dashboard apart.

"What're you doing?" Sands asked again, trying to bury himself deeper within the seat of the car and wishing he had a blanket to cover up with.

"Hotwiring," she replied distractedly. "This isn't my car, you know."

"No, I don't," he returned bitterly, thinking spitefully of his how his blindness had somehow been resurrected.

She didn't answer, though Sands heard several frustrated sighs indicating that she either didn't know how to hotwire a car, or hadn't performed such an act in a long time.

"You need to turn the ignition on first," he informed her wearily, feeling consciousness slip away with every second. The sound of the engine starting up and the mild vibration of the seats told him that she had done as he had said.

"Two red wires together, right?" she guessed.

"Yep." A second later he asked, "Did the dash light up?"

"Yeah."

"Power up the starter motor," Sands instructed breathlessly, the air escaping his lungs painfully for a moment. Having a chest injury was _not _a pleasant experience. This wasn't even the first time he'd been shot or even wounded in that area, but he wasn't immune to the pain by no means.

"Okay," the woman said. "Sorry you have to talk me through this. I know you must be hurting -"

"I'll be hurting a lot more if you don't beat feet, sugar," he interrupted, annoyed. "So shut your trap, and do as I say. Cross the brown lead with the reds, that should crank over and kick the engine off."

A pause, then – "Okay."

Closing his eyes wearily, Sands let out a frustrated sigh, wanting nothing more than sleep to come to him, but he knew that wouldn't be a good idea. Not until _she _got her act together.

"Now rev it up – don't stall – engage gear, and drive us the fuck outta here."

**VVV**

Joséphine was anxious. So anxious that she had refused to let herself sleep. She had stayed awake, waiting for the team of agents to come home. It had taken until three in the morning (she had been able to tell by counting the number of times she heard a clock chime) but she had done it.

Her blank eyes hadn't even begun to grow heavy when the front door burst open, and Agent Fusco hurried inside, carrying the limp form of Lynné Sands in his arms. Joséphine, of course, saw none of this, and her immediate reaction was to jump to her feet and yell.

"Qui sont vous!?" (Who are you!?) she demanded, her voice rising to a shrill soprano. She knew full well that there was nothing she could do against her grandfather's men, but that did not mean she was about to go down without a fight. After all, she was the granddaughter of Édouard Poisson, and, like it or not, she shared the same blood as he.

"Joséphine, calm down. It's me," Liam assured her distractedly. Hastily, he laid his partner down on the couch, knowing how much Lynné would hate it when she woke up and found herself on something made of leather but not really caring about her wrath at the moment.

"Que . . . qu'est-ce qui est arrivé?" (What . . . what has happened?) Her once strong voice now sounded faint. Suddenly, staying up and waiting for the agents' return seemed like a very foolish idea. Now her energy fell as though it had been drained from her body and was now lying in a puddle at her small feet.

"Où est tous les autres?" (Where is everyone else?) she asked softly.

Liam paused. He had no idea how to go about explaining what had happened that night. In truth, he wasn't even sure of what had become of everyone. Poisson, Vincent, Hernandez, Zebbidy, or (he swallowed hard, thinking of Lynné) . . . Sands . . .

"Monsieur?"

"Huh?" Liam asked stupidly. "Oh. Um . . . could, that is, do you . . . speak English?"

Frustrated, Joséphine put her hands on her hips and scowled up at him.

"I undehr stand it, donn-t I?"

Relieved, Liam allowed a weak grin to creep across his face.

"That's good, I mean, I understand French, it's just that it's a lot easier –"

"Monsieur Fusco!" Joséphine shouted furiously, stomping her foot to emphasis her anger.

Instantly, Liam's hands had flown up in defense. "Okay!" he cried, not believing that he was afraid of a child who only reached his knees. "Okay . . . they're, well, Lynné anyway, is fine."

"Vhat about Mademoiselle Zebbidy ahnd Monsieur Sands?" Joséphine drilled on.

"I . . ." Liam faltered, biting his lip nervously. "I . . . don't know . . ."

**VVV**

He wished everything would stop moving. All around him, colors swirled before his eyes and the car rocked and lurched with every hairpin turn his chauffeur seemed to be obsessed with. The fact that he could not see only made things worse. He had to _feel _everything now. At least when he had his eyes he could always occupy his mind, find something to distract him whenever dizziness washed over him.

Gasping as though a knife had been plunged into his flesh, he grasped the burning wound at his side. It was still there, growing increasingly unbearable every second and serving as a reminder of how stupid he had been.

_Wasn't stupid . . . _he muttered to himself, not sure if he had uttered the words or merely thought them. _I was trying to find Zebbidy but the mobsters caught up with me first, and they shot me. I was doing my job. That wasn't stupid._

_**Yeah, it was, **_the voice started to say, but another voice interrupted it.

"No, it wasn't," the woman agreed. Judging by how far away she sounded, her head was pointed forward, which meant that her eyes were still on the road. Smart girl, he mused, relaxing slightly. The idea that his chauffeur liked to keep herself aware of her surroundings eased his distressed nerves, but only a little.

"Aren't you agree and say that _I _was the stupid one?" she demanded suddenly.

"And why, may I ask, would I say that?" Sands retorted irritably.

"I _did _run off when you told me to stay put. If I hadn't, you wouldn't have gone looking for me and therefore wouldn't've run into Poisson's men."

Sands paused, thinking this through. What the fuck was she talking about? _She'd _run off? He hadn't gone looking for her, had he? He'd searched for Zebbidy, yes, but not some gentle, soft-spoken car thief. But she obviously thought he had. Maybe she was right . . . Maybe he had reached rock bottom of his sanity at last.

_S'pretty dark down here, _he murmured. Even his thoughts were slurred now. Damn blood loss. He needed to get some fluids in him quick or else he'd be dead.

_Where all was I hit, anyway?_

_**Don't ask me. I can't see, not anymore, remember?**_

_Don't remind m – ahhh . . . _Sands grimaced as a sharp pain, almost like a pinch, in his head told him to stop, however. Post-trama contemplation was no better than tap dancing while he had three bullet holes going through him.

"Sorry," the woman apologized sincerely. "I know it doesn't seem like enough – can't really help you, can it? But, still . . . I'm sorry."

"Whatever you say, honey," Sands muttered feebly. "Whatever you say . . ."

**VVV**

The pair of Americans who straggled into the Bourgogne et Montana Hotel were a sorry sight. Judging by the black mask on his face and the green one of hers, they had just arrived from a costume party of some sort and had not even bothered to bring any spare clothing with them. The woman appeared on the edge about something, whereas the man seemed not to know what was going on at all. Perhaps they were drunk. Nobody knew. As long as they paid well, then there was nothing else that mattered.

"Excuse me, but my husband and I would like to rent a room . . ."

The pleasant words echoed through Sands' spiraling head, becoming louder and louder throughout the endless stream of vibration.

"Of course," the concierge at the front desk replied, her accent making its presence known. "What kind of room were you looking for?"

_Can't look for anything, sweetcheeks. I'm blind._

"A suit, preferably," the first woman replied smoothly. "And as quickly as possible. We just got back from a party and he's . . . rather tipsy."

A light gale of laughter broke through the swirling mass inside Sands' head. It sounded as though the husband in the scenario had been warned not to drink, but he had gone and done it anyway, and this was his wife's way of scolding him for being so foolish. Sands half expected to hear her chiding, 'I told you so' complete with a disappointed shake of her head.

"There you are," the concierge replied, smiling as she handed Zebbidy her keycard. "Is there anything else we can do for you, madam?"

"Could I get a few extra blankets, please?" she requested. "And I would be very grateful if all of your maids avoided our room. I cannot stress how important it is for my husband to have his rest."

"Of course, madam," the woman at the desk agreed, her smile still firmly in place. "I have a husband of my own. I know how they can be at times."

The two women shared a laugh, one that sounded throughout Sands' mind, bouncing off of his skull and making his head pound. Despite how anxious she was feeling, Zebbidy managed to keep up her chipper façade.

"I appreciate your help, it being so late and all," she thanked the receptionist gratefully, carefully shifting her weight so she wasn't carrying Sands' all but limp form.

_Thank the gods his clothing is black, _she gasped, severely in debt to whatever force had made Sands decide on Zorro for the party. _Nothing will show unless his blood starts to drip onto the – shit. _The expletive interrupted her thoughts, nearly slipping out of her mouth as her eyes caught the unmistakable sign of spilt blood on the waxed oak floor.

_Damnit. Okay . . . I gotta wrap this up. He's not gonna last forever and she's gonna start to get suspicious. Then things are gonna get real ugly, real fast – more than they already are._

"Well, I should get him to bed. Thank you again," she insisted, exaggerating her appreciation and milking her acting skills for all they were worth while keeping Sands stable at the same time.

"Bienvenus," the concierge said, inclining her head slightly.

As Zebbidy hurried off – half-leading, half-carrying Sands to the elevator – the receptionist turned back to the magazine she had been reading, her smile still plastered across her face, not even noticing the bright spattering of blood that trailed after the couple.

**VVV**

_(falls over) x.X . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -.e o.o O.O! Wow, I can't believe I got that much out in a few hours. This chapter isn't_ too _short, I hope. Like I said, the next two are bound to be longer. And let me know if anyone's getting out of character. You all know how bent I can get about that. 9.6; On a side note (that I will not forget! Ha!) that_ is_, in fact, how you hotwire a car. I've noticed in a lot of books and movies and TV shows that they'll _have_ people hotwiring a vehicle, but they'll never explain how it's_ done. _Trust our lovely Agent Sands to know how, huh? ;)_

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**Lynx Ryder: **My e-mail alerts aren't working either, which I'm hoping is the reason for the sudden drop in reviews from my other readers. :( lol, that's usually one the best time to show any affection towards Sands, either that or when he's asleep, half-asleep, or unconscious. Usually if he's even _semi_-conscious he seems to have a vague idea of what's going on. How he does is beyond me. I've given up trying to figure him out in _that _area. Nah, I don't blame Zeb for shooting that guy. Like you said, he was gonna kill Sands! If it's between offing a crony or having him kill Sands, I'd hope that the choice would be obvious. u.u Zeb's just not big on killing _anybody_. Evil or not. It's a long story that _will _be explained in the not too distant future :)

**Dawnie-7: **lol, I was trying to think from a guy's point of view (nervous smile). Given the position he was in and Sands being, well, _Sands_, even in a total state of shock I can picture him focusing _some_ thought on Zeb's equipment. Nope, he definitely seems like he'd be a bit panicky in dangerous situations. For the most part, and this isn't any word against anyone, I've read stories where Sands'll be in these predicaments that put his life on the line, yet he's as calm as can be. I dunno, maybe I'm wrong, but I just don't see him that way. After all, he definitely seemed more than a little terrified when Barillo had him strapped to that table, didn't he? Anyway, I've never been big on psychology either, save for schizophrenia as well. Hmm. Funny that. But Sands and Lyn seem like they'd have some knowledge in that area, so I've been delving into it a bit more lately. Glad ya liked it :)

o


	30. Out if Sight, Out of Mind

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Thirty: **Out of Sight, Out if Mind

Feel free to ignore this intro if you want. It had nothing to do with the story, just me letting off some steam. It won't bother me in the least if anyone skips ahead to the fic, although my rant deals with stuff every kid (well, every kid who goes to public school) deals with, so some may find it interesting.

Okay, so . . . am I the only one who despises state testing? It's ridiculous and asinine and yet every kid is forced to take them anyway because they're required on your college application! So instead of teaching us English or math (which I _still _feel is pointless to take after sixth grade unless you plan on going into that field of work) or science that we might actually _use_, the teachers take the time to show us how to do these incredibly confusing math problems, remember complicated science facts, and write an essay that will only be five paragraphs long. This is stuff we probably _won't _use ever again, guys, and yet they take the time to teach it to use anyway because each school needs to reach a certain percentage or else said school's funding will be cut! Oh no! What annoys me the most is the fact that small, suburban and/or rural schools like mine do really well because there aren't as many kids, so we get some extra cash to spend when, really, we'd get along fine without it. Whereas large, inter-city schools who really need the money _don't _do as well and their funding is reduced even more! Does that make any sense? I don't think so.

Sands: (sarcastically) Hey, no child left behind, Sid.

Sidney: 9.9 Right . . . right . . .

**VVV**

The elevator ride had to be the worst part of the night. He may have to suffer through weeks, even months of painful recuperation, but, damnit, nothing could compare to riding in an elevator. Not when your flesh had been torn in three different places, wave after wave of nausea was rocking your body, and you couldn't even see where you were going.

Then again, riding in an elevator after you were shot _four _times and had recently been relieved of your eyes could be considered tough competition. And that was the only thing that kept Sands awake. The thought that he had already been through worse – and _lived _– was what gave him the adrenaline that allowed him to fight his constant battle with sleep.

Sleep. Going to bed in a dark room . . . drifting off . . . and then finally waking up again, only to see that nothing has changed. Everything is still black. The fact that you _can't see _is still going strong, and nothing has changed because you're _blind_ . . . that was something that nothing could compare with.

_Goddamn it, why? _Why _the fuck did this happen?_

_**I already **_**told _you, _**the voice sighed, disgruntled. **_You saw Hernandez, mistook her for That Bitch –_**

_Wait, wait – _what

**Ajedrez, **the voice translated, now thoroughly irked. **_Hernandez looks like her._**

_What? _Sands demanded wearily.

**_Remember what you told Lyn about learning a new word? Think you should start taking your own advice._**

_Bite me, _he snapped, though even his thoughts were beginning to grow feeble with exhaustion. _Christ . . . how much blood have I lost, d'you think?_

_**A lot, **_the voice answered mockingly.

_Thanks for the clarification; that _really_ helps._

Unwillingly, he felt himself leaning even more heavily against his female companion. He hated – loathed allowing weakness to show in front of anyone – not even someone who had vowed to do everything in her power to help him – but for some reason his body didn't want to obey the orders his mind was sending it.

_Shit, that can't be good . . ._

Perhaps his fatigue was finally getting to him, or perhaps the small puddle of blood that was bound to be on the floor had finally gathered into a lake that did it. It could have been the droplets of sweat that were collecting on his forehead, the ones that soaked his hair, drenched his clothes so they clung to his body, and made his mask and hat horribly unbearable to wear. Whatever it was caused his knees to give out.

A rush of wind filled his aching lungs as his feet became entangled, sliding out from beneath him. He felt his stomach lurch as he spilled forward. Everything in his head was swirling violently – surely his brain was being thrown around his skull. He blinked, trying desperately to see through the darkness that had snared him once again, but his effort was wasted. He doubted that, even if by some miracle he _had _regained his sight, the horrible staggering sickness would have prevented him from seeing anything clearly.

Pain reeled through his body once again, but he didn't fall. All at once, the world seemed to stop. Everything was frozen in place, almost as if they had been caught in time and were waiting to be released. The only beings that had the luxury of movement were Sands and . . ._ Who the hell is she?_

She had caught him. Whoever she was, she had caught him just as he was about to take a dive. Horrible, fiery jets shot through his arms and legs the moment she tightened her hold on him. His teeth sunk into his lower lip as his brain shouted commands to his vocal cords, ordering him over and over again not to scream. He wanted nothing more than for her to let go. Let him fall, let him lay there, anyone else would have.

"No you, though," he muttered out loud as his head unwillingly fell against her shoulder.

"Hmm?" his escort replied.

"Nothing . . ."

_Christ, who _is _she!?_

_**Gee . . . let's think**_, the voice satirized nastily. **_It's a chick, who was at Poisson's shindig, who _you _went looking for – and she's sorry because about that since, due to her absence, _you _were shot. Now, who could possibly fit that description? Well I just don't know . . ._**

_Just tell me, _Sands panted. Instead of the forceful, commanding threat he desired the order came out clumsy and feeble, which only expressed his pain further and had no effect on the voice.

"We're almost there," the woman was assuring him. "I'm sorry about this. If I'd known we'd be on the eighth floor, I would've asked for a different room." Her voice was calm, placid even, but his harried nerves would not be subdued.

_Who is she? Tell me, damnit. I want to know._

**Do _you?_** the voice questioned mysteriously.

_Yes_, he seethed angrily, the unfairness of the situation causing frustration that drained him of his remaining energy. Sensing that awful, horribly familiar feeling of wooziness rearing its sickening head, Sands braced himself for the worst.

_You don't know, do you? _he challenged hoarsely, his own voice reduced to nothing more than a guttural rasp. If he didn't get any liquids in him soon . . . but he didn't think of that. The voice was about to answer. It had to. The fucking thing never said no to a match of wits.

_DING_

He heard the mysterious woman breathe a sigh of relief as she shifted carefully until her left arm was around his waist. With her free arm, she reached over and took his hand in hers. Sands found that he could not summon the will to protest, though he was not certain if it had anything to do with invalidity.

**VVV**

Silently, maintaining her hold on Sands the entire time, Zebbidy edged down the hallway with as much stealth as humanly possible. All the while she kept her thoughts focused on one single target: _316, 316, 316, 316 . . ._

It was their room number. As a child, Zebbidy had realized that, when times were rough, for her the best solution was to give herself a goal and never let it go until she achieved it. It worked, for the most part. Kept her from losing her mind, anyway. _316, 316, 316 . . . _Rewind, repeat. _316, 316 . . ._

She barely noticed when a sharp gasp escaped Sands' mouth. It was only a mild pinching sensation in her fingers that snapped her out of her habitual state. The agent had been thrown into a world of pain and someone must have sent him a reminder. Returning his intense grip on her hand with a reassuring squeeze, Zebbidy bit her lip and continued to usher the bleeding man down the hall, while Sands felt himself fading from reality.

_316_, Zebbidy thought admiringly when at last they reached their room. With no time to spare, she swept her keycard through its slot, pushed the door open, and guided Sands through its frame.

Had anyone been walking down that particular hallway several seconds after the door to room 316 closed, they would have seen it open once again, albeit, only a crack. A dainty hand would have soon appeared through the slit that stood between the door and its frame. Any witnesses would have seen the hand hang a small, plastic sign – complements of the hotel staff – around the knob. Instead of being flipped over to its frequently seen message – one that read: '**Bonne Demandée**' (Maid Requested) – it had been turned over, showing a much more intriguing demand.

**Ne Pas Déranger.**

Do not disturb.

**VVV**

In his bed, aside from his rapidly heaving chest, Sands was still. His fingernails clawed the sheets beneath him, digging into the soft fabrics of the mattress. Waves of pain crashed over him like an angry flood, and each time they took his breath away, leaving him in volatile suffocation and the panicked thought that he might die. When he was finally rewarded with precious air, it wasn't because the pain had let up. It was still there, just as strong as always, and he knew that it would continue to tear through his body until he finally passed out from exhaustion. Because this time, there were no wonderful, mind numbing drugs to put a temporary end to his suffering.

Meanwhile, standing at the counter of their suite's tiny kitchen, Zebbidy was hard at work as she frantically searched through her purse/bag, pulling out its contents one by one.

'_And it harm none do as ye will,_' she recited silently, still retrieving vial after vial, bottle after bottle until she found the one she desired. "I'd do well to remember that, but what good's it gonna do me now?"

"What good's _what _gonna do you?"

Zebbidy gasped, nearly dropping the crystal vial in her hand as she spun around. Her bright eyes widened when she saw Sands standing in – or rather, _leaning_ against the wide doorframe that separated the quaint little kitchen from the welcoming bedroom. Unmasked, hatless, and relieved of his boots and gloves, Sands rather worse for wear. His lean form seemed to have shrunk since Zebbidy last saw him, an observation that aroused the suspicion that he was losing weight because of stress.

"Sands," she began, her voice quiet but firm, "you should be in bed."

"That's just what I plan on doing as soon as I get some answers, darlin,'" he replied casually, though Zebbidy saw that his hands were shaking as he crossed them over his bleeding chest.

"You were _shot_," Zebbidy told him, emphasizing the last word extensively. "Can't you see tha-"

"As a matter of fact . . ." He paused, casting a cold smirk in her direction. "I can't."

Zebbidy was confused, and it showed. "Wh . . . what?"

"Didn't catch that?" he asked mockingly. Then, just like that, his tone changed, morphing from taunting to furious in an instant. "_I can't fucking **see**_!"

Despite the loud, rage-infested words ringing in her ears, Zebbidy heard the pain hidden within them. Her heart broke for him, telling her to forget the herbs, that all he needed right now was someone to be there for him, but she knew she could do no such thing. Not now.

"How?" she breathed, eyes wide with shock and sadness.

Sands stared (or appeared to) at her, slightly taken aback. He had thought that the correct question to ask would be 'What?' But the woman – Zebbidy, he now knew, placing her voice at last – had asked how, not what. He was confused, but she was still awaiting an answer. Well, wouldn't want to keep the girl in the dark, right?

"Well, Zeb, I'm not sure. Seems that you're not the only one prone to panic attacks when it comes to Rosa Hernandez."

"Rosa?" Zebbidy wondered. "What does she –"

"Beats the shit outta me," Sands snapped, refusing to admit anything.

**_Anything being . . . Ajedrez – whoops, sorry _Rosa**the voice queried. **_You know you thought she was Ajedrez._**

_No . . . ye – I don't . . ._

The voice sighed, disgusted as it ordered lazily, **_Go to bed, Sheldon._**

_Right . . ._

"Okay," he heard Zebbidy say softly. Suddenly, a hand was on his shoulder. Impulsively, he jerked away but regretted it at once. He grimaced, grinding his teeth and gasping at the pain the movement had inflicted. Leaning his back against the frame of the door, he panted, clutching his chest.

Sympathy overcoming warning, Zebbidy took a hold of the stubborn man's arm again and lead him, surprisingly without protest, to the bedroom. She still held onto his arm and he still had yet to shrug it off when she helped him lay down. A little stunned but not frozen with shock as Sands had been earlier, Zebbidy kept her hand in place while she pulled the blankets up around him.

"Are you cold?" she asked, watching him 'gaze' at the ceiling with blank eyes.

"A bit, yeah," he admitted, suddenly realizing the odd draft that lingered within the bedroom.

"Okay," Zebbidy said, tucking the blankets in around him to keep the heat in. The last thing she needed was the agent to go into shock. _He's already done that once tonight, by the looks of things. Looks . . . shit . . . I wonder if he really is blind . . . ?_

"I'm gonna go get my . . . . supplies," she told him gently. "In case you didn't notice, cuz it doesn't seem like ya did, you've got a few holes in you. They'll need to be taken care off."

This said, she turned to leave, only to be stopped by a strange question: "How many?"

"Hmm?"

"_Holes_," the agent translated. "How many?"

"Oh," Zebbidy realized. "Three."

"Where?"

This time, she noticed the pain and . . . was that despair? And _worry_, too? She would have never expected such emotions to come from Agent Sands had she not received her visions of the man. _They _were _from his past, _she knew now. _Someone took his eyes and some_how _he got them back. _That's_ why he's so worried. Oh my gods . . . the poor thing . . ._

"One in your chest – I don't think it hit anything vital – then a bullet went through your side, but it just grazed it, and you've got a nasty hole going through your arm. I'm gonna have to tend to that one first, by the looks of it."

Sands made no reply, not even a nod, he merely gazed up at the ceiling, a blank look on his face. But she saw him relax physically and she heard his mental sigh of relief. Calmed herself, Zebbidy took that as her motive to take her leave.

"I'll be right back," she told him, simply informing him that she was now leaving to room, but to Zebbidy, the sentence sounded more like she was trying to assure the agent that she _would _be back instead.

**VVV**

"This one may hurt a bit, so feel free to yell –"

"I didn't while you stitched up the other two," Sands pointed out weakly.

"But you can't tell me they didn't hurt," Zebbidy countered, glancing at him before re-threading her needle. But one look at the wound on Sands' left shoulder made her stop.

"How'd you get this one?"

"Flipped over one of the tables for cover; some mobster shot a bullet, it went through it," Sands replied tiredly.

"Shit . . ."

"Mmm . . . ?"

"There's probably wood embedded in your arm – "

"Goody."

"– so I'll have to get it out or else you'll catch an infection. Luckily, I brought tweezers with me."

"Yeah, luckily," Sands muttered dryly, wrapping his uninjured arm around the wound at his side. The action didn't ease the pain at all, but it gave him the false sense of security that he sorely needed.

"Okay, I'm gonna start," Zebbidy began, raising the pair of tweezers in her hand, a gesture that would have appeared almost menacing had Sands been able to see it.

"Zeb, just because I'm _blind_ – " he stressed the word, hoping to get to her "—doesn't mean you have to voice your every fucking move, all right? Just get it over with."

"Y'know," she said, her voice taking on an icy edge that Sands was not accustomed to, "I really don't think you're in any position to order _me _around. I'm under the impression that you're an ungrateful bastard, yes, but may I remind you that I _did _save your ass. I suppose I _could _have let you stand their like a dolt and allow that guy to shoot you full of holes, but, unfortunately, my emotions wouldn't allow that."

"Nice to know you're starting to warm up to me – ahhh . . ." Sands hissed through his teeth, his comment being cut short as Zebbidy plunged the sharp ends of her tweezers into his left shoulder, sending bolts of pain through his already aching limbs.

Zebbidy faltered only slightly as she took notice of the agent's pain. Already beads of sweat were beginning to collect on his forehead, reminding her of how much blood he must have lost, of how much everything must hurt, of how he had lost himself just hours ago . . .

"What happened back at Poisson's anyway?" she decided to ask; a ploy to take Sands' mind off of the pain that was obviously eating away at him.

"What?" he snapped, cringing and grasping the sheets surrounding him. "I already . . . told you . . . . I don't . . . fucking . . . _know_. And it's not gonna happen again, so don't worry about it."

_Why shouldn't I? _Zebbidy was tempted to ask. But she restrained herself. The man was already in a world of pain; he didn't need her contributing to it.

"Okay," she said, dutifully returning to her task. "Damnit . . . there's still some in there. Brace yourself for this . . ."

_Ow . . . _ow . . . _ow, ow, ow, _ow, OW! _Goddamn it! _Zebbidy glanced at Sands as his cries of torment entered her mind. On the outside, however, the agent merely ground his teeth together, his face pinched with the agony that had been wreaked upon him. Again, Zebbidy felt a sharp pang of sympathy towards him, a yearning sadness that stuck in her chest and refused to leave.

_I wish you'd let me help you . . . _she found herself thinking miserably. _But this is all I can do until then._

**VVV**

**_It's funny. I seem to recall _you _agreeing to 'come to her rescue' if and when things got ugly . . . and yet when that _did _happen . . . _she _was the one to rescue _you.**

_What's your point? _Sands wondered tiredly, his every bone aching from the torrent of bullets that had ripped through his body.

**_No point, _**the voice said mildly. **_It's just ironic._**

_Whatever . . . Now would ya piss off? I'm kinda tired._

_**Well whose fault is that, smart-ass? You haven't been sleeping well at all, have you?**_

_No._

_**That can't be healthy, Sheldon.**_

_I'm aware of that, thank you._

_**So's skipping meals.**_

_Yeah._

_**You've got a fever, too, y'know.**_

_Uh huh . . ._

_**And Ajedrez is standing right behind you.**_

****"What??"

Sands spun around despite his injuries. He looked around, searching wildly for the gun he could not see. Everywhere he looked, no matter which way he turned his head, he was met with darkness. Feeling panic begin to rise, Sands tried desperately to calm himself down.

Resisting the urge to think of that quote that Lynné was always repeating, Sands took in several deep breaths, ignoring his instincts all the while. They were insisting – no, _ordering _him to bolt, but he contradicted them.

_How the fuck can I run when I _can't **see**

_**Don't . . . look . . . at me. Ask the bitch behind you. She's the one that did this.**_

****Pivoting again, though he knew it would do no good, Sands took up his hunt again, only this time his prey was not a gun, but the woman who had thrown him into this mess.

**_Ah, no. That would be Rosa. Although I Ajedrez _is _the one who started all of this in the first place, so you might be right in thinking it was her._**

****"Why don't you tell that voice of yours to be quiet? You've kept me waiting for too long."

Sands felt his body freeze up just as it had done in Poisson's ballroom mere hours ago, only this time, he still had control of his actions. Whipping around, he turned to face the woman who had spoken, and this time he was not met with unending darkness.

"Sorry if I interrupted your conversation, baby," Ajedrez apologized playfully. "But I needed to get your attention somehow."

She was dressed exactly as she had been on the day everything had gone to hell, the day he'd finally fallen along with everyone else. Wearing all black on the Day of the Dead and having a gaping hole going right through your abdomen . . . how very fitting. Ajedrez didn't seem to be bothered by her wound, though. Or maybe she just had a higher tolerance for pain than he did.

"Mind telling me what the fuck's going on?" he asked casually, wishing he had a cigarette there to reinforce the mellow air he was giving off.

She laughed, amused. "You mean you don't know?"

"Kinda hard for me to tell when all I can see is you."

"Aww . . ." she sighed, pretending to be touched. Sands felt a stab of annoyance that stood out among the throbbing pain that had been plaguing him.

"So I guess you screwed up again, hmm?" She was toying with him, and Sands knew it.

_Don't be baited, don't be baited . . . It's what she wants, smarmy, conniving bitch . . ._

"Guess so," he replied coolly. "Would you know anything about that?"

She merely flashed him a mysterious smile and took a step towards him.

"Rosa Hernandez . . . she's your sister, isn't she?" Sands guessed. "Barillo had two hoes the agency failed to tell me about."

Ajedrez shook her head, stepping closer. "No."

"Half sister."

Another step. "No."

"Cousin."

She was just an inch away from him when she answered, "No."

"Mind telling me who she _is _then?"

"See for yourself," Ajedrez answered silkily.

"Cute –" he started to say but a hand on his shoulder forced him to turn around. Long – longer than Ajedrez's – dark, curly hair spilled over the gauzy blue fabric that covered tan shoulders. Piercing blue eyes stared up at him from a pretty face.

**_Pretty? _**the voice snorted. **_Yeah, pretty familiar . . ._**

_Ha. Ha, _Sands replied sarcastically.

"I don't know if I can explain it," Rosa Hernandez confided to Ajedrez.

"Doubt he'll notice. He's too busy having a conversation with himself. Couldn't you tell?"

"Actually –"

"How the fuck do you know about that?" Sands demanded as his eyes narrowed menacingly.

The pair of women looked stunned, but only for a moment. In an instant the identical, evil smirks were back, each holding a secret that neither cared to reveal. Suddenly, a thought seemed to strike Ajedrez, one that she, apparently, didn't mind if it was voiced.

"You told me, remember?"

"I doubt that," Sands began.

"You told me everything . . ."

"_No _. . ."

". . . when you told me your plan . . ."

"_No_," he insisted more to himself than to the two women. "I _didn't _. . . . I didn't tell you jack –"

"But you _did_," Rosa interjected, adding her two cents. "You filled her in on everything. The money . . . the coup . . . how much you care for your sister . . . how much you miss your mother . . . the homicidal thoughts about your father . . . even," she paused, surveying him, "that fucking _voice_ . . . in your head."

"No . . ." Sands muttered hollowly, insisting to himself that he didn't – he would _never. . . _he wasn't that dense . . . If ever he should marry, he didn't think he'd even tell his _wife _about that fucking voice. And as for caring about Lynné, mourning his mother's absence, and wanting to kill his father . . . well, aside from that last one, he doubted he'd ever admit to any of that.

**_You didn't tell her anything. She's making it up._**

****"It's just trying to lure you," Ajedrez informed him calmly. "If you want to be delusional, fine by me. Just don't let it get in the way of things."

"What?" Sands asked, confused and hating how stupid he must have sounded.

**_Don't listen, _**the voice warned. **_Shut her out – shut _both _of them out. Shoot the bitches – NOW!_**

_Sorry, don't have a gun on me or I'd've done that already._

"How do you know all of that anyway, _Rosa_?" he sneered, shooting the other woman a glare.

"You shouldn't concern yourself with that," she replied, still smirking broadly.

"No, really, I think I should."

Ajedrez shook her head slightly, laughing, "No . . . you shouldn't."

Rosa was laughing now, too. Both or them . . . laughing . . . laughing at _him, _the fucking cu –

**_Hey, now, let's keep it clean, _**the voice reminded him warningly.

_Fuck it. They can hear what I'm thinking anyway._

"We can," Rosa smirked delightedly, unable to keep the laughter out of her voice.

**_Shut them up, _**the voice ordered. **_Shut them the fuck up!_**

****"You _can't_," Ajedrez chided brightly. "Because you can't destroy what you can't see."

And then, they vanished as everything around him went black.

**VVV**

Sands shot straight up in bed, ignoring how much it made his chest and side scream. Sweat trickled down his face as he panted for breath, grasping the sheets that had twisted themselves around him.

_Those aren't sheets . . ._

Arms. They were _arms_. Ajedrez's and Rosa's; they had to be. Who else would be holding him back like this . . . ?

"Lay down," a soft voice instructed, trying to goad him into sleep as gently as it could. "You'll pop your stitches if you don't."

_Zebbidy_, he realized, too tired to think any further.

Instead of returning to bed as she wished, Sands felt himself lean forward into the woman until his burning forehead was securely nestled within the crook of her shoulder. He didn't know if it was out of tiredness or yearning, but at this point, he found that he could not will himself to care.

**VVV**

_Oh my_ God_! Thirty chapters, guys!_ Thirty _chapters!!_ _8O I'm shocked to say the least, although after I got to eighteen on the last story, I should know better, right? I still can't believe I thought this story would only be about twelve chapters long – I had a plot and a few scenes, but nothing to fill the gaps with. When I started this one I figured that it would either be much longer or dismally shorter than its maker. More than likely the latter, but, once again, I was wrong._

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**Dawnie-7: **Sands claims that he was _not _frightened by Barillo and 'that twisted fuckwad, Guevera,' but merely _pretending _to be because he wanted to 'lead them on.' 9.9 Men. Can't admit to anything. Aww, it's so great to hear that somebody thinks Josey's precious. :) Just as long as she doesn't become annoyingly cute, of course. u.u

**morph: **(hangs head in shame) Yeah . . . you figured it out, no thanks to a certain _someone_ (shoots a sideways glare at Sands) But it's cool that you were able to think of that from that one comment he made. Really, I hadn't intended that to happen. Just trying to get Sands to be Sands, y'know? And I love that you said the story reminded you of OUaTiM! I wasn't going for that either exactly, but it's still neat to know my fic kinda goes along with the swing of the movie. :) I've dealt with more computer problems than I can list, so I know how ya feel about that. I wasn't ticked or anything, I just wondered where everyone had disappeared to all of a sudden.

**Lynx Ryder: **Firstly, this is gonna be one long response, but you wrote me a nice, long review, so I feel obliated :) I love how you wrote that they're my characters now. In a sense, they are, I think. This is the way I've always figured it: There is really only one Sands (same thing goes for anyone else, whether they be from movies, books, cartoons, or TV shows). That Sands is the one from the movie, the one created by Mr. Rodriguez and brought to life by Mr. Depp. To me, any Sands in a fanfiction or fanart is almost like a spinoff of the original character. Not saying that they're out of character or anything, just that they're not the one from the movie. Not matter how much they appear to be like 'Real' Sands, they each have something about them that makes them different. They may have quirks that aren't in the movie, or secretly care about their sisters like mine, or learn to love again like yours. In any case, they're not – exactly – the Sands from the movie. So, in a way, everybody has their own Sands – though that doesn't mean disclaimers aren't necessary. Suing people is a trend anymore. 9.9 In chapter twenty-seven I noticed that Sands was shot in his left arm. Again. Thinking back on it, I realized that he always wore his third arm over the left one, so I kinda took that and used it as an excuse to why Sands wore the fake arm in the first place. Aside from the fact that he could shoot someone if things went awry, of course. u.u And I liked your long winded agreement; it fit Sands very well. In control, he's good to go but once he loses it, well, he loses it. His "cool" I should say. u.u Yes, Liam is definitely the black – or should I say white? Lyn and Sands are much darker than he is – sheep of the group. He's a nervous man by nature, but that trate is almost exaggerated by Sands and Lynn's icy presense. Zeb being an agent . . . hmm . . . never thought of it, though I'm not sure if she'd agree to it. Good or evil, she has extreme difficulties when it comes to killing someone. Only when it is absolutely necessary will she actually go through with it and pull the trigger. It's a long story that has much to do with her past and, more importantly, her genes, but it won't be explained until later chaptes. You won't have long to wait, though :)

**Invader Nicole: **Oy, I never get to talk to you online anymore! :( It's cool you reviewed, though. Hope your computer's working again. O.O! Tell Armani to stop before she give Zeb any ideas. Yep, the stigmata thing is pretty nifty. I think I heard it on a show that was on the history channel one time. But I'm sure you can find a lot of info on the Internet, too. u.u

**fanfiction fanatic: **I know what you mean. I haven't had much in the area of time either. 9.9 Dang school. Nice to hear from ya again, though. :)

_Before I make my leave, I want to apologize in advance. Why? The next chapter might be a little late – late meaning no updates 'til Tuesday or _possibley _Wednesday – if it's not late, it'll be short. Again. Sorry :( School is demanding my attention, however, now more than ever. I have try-outs for District Choir all day this Sunday, so I really only have a few hours tonight and all day Saturday to write. Don't wanna go to Districts, but when your choir director(who scares the heck outta you o.o;;) is the one who decides not only what grade you get but what part you get in his muicals, you really don't have many options. XP_

_o_


	31. The Basis of Life

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Thirty-One: **The Basis of Life

Remember that play Lyn's always quoting? _Laughing Wild _by Christopher Durang. I've said it once, I'll say it again: Go – out – and – read – it! I cannot stress that enough. It's a great monologue and I'm so grateful to have been able to perform it for speech league last year. Breathing has always struck me as interesting – it's such a simple act and yet so very important; we take it for granted, really – but that bit from LW just sums up what I've always believed. That's why it was so neat to learn that one of Mr. Johnny Depp's favorite pastimes is breathing. :)

**VVV**

Lynn's leg was gone. Simple as that. She was never one to beat around the bush and had always hated people who did. Instead of being straightforward with her, they – colleagues, associates, contacts – would sputter and cough, anything instead of telling her what was on their mind. That was why, Lynné figured, she was always truthful. . . . as truthful as she could be without leaking too much information. Or, in the cases where she had to lie (which were frequent), she still refused hesitation. Get in, get out; _that _was the plan, _that _was what she always did.

**_Yeah, but isn't it kinda hard when you have _one fucking LEG**

_Yes, _she agreed tonelessly. _It is._

_**Smooth, girl, **_the voice chided with restrained fury. **_That's reeeal fuckin' smooth._**

****"Mademoiselle, vous êtes éveillés?" (Miss, are you awake?) a young voice asked tentatively.

_Oh Christ . . . not now, kid. I don't need this . . ._

_**Just tell her to piss off again. She listened to you the first time.**_

_Yeah, but she probably knows something's wrong, fuckin' Miss Cleo wannabe that she is._

"Mademoiselle?" The kid was trying to be quiet, Lynné could tell by how constricted her voice sounded. She didn't need to open her eyes to know that the child was struggling with her conscience. From the sound of things, Joséphine was torn. The girl's immediate instincts were insisting that she rush over and try to aid Lynné while her mind held her back, warning her that she would do well to stay where she was and not go anywhere near the crazy American woman.

_Gotta give her props for caring. Most kids her age put themselves first._

_**Like you?**_

_Hell yes. I may have been a naïve little brat, but I wasn't _stupid.

**_Mmm, _**the voice murmured quietly. **_Are you ever gonna answer her?_**

_No, _Lyn replied bluntly. _If I don't, she'll think I'm asleep or at least know that I'm ignoring her. Whatever the case, when she doesn't get what she wants, she'll leave. She'll be huffy about it, but she'll still _leave_, and that's what matters._

_**Don't know if that's gonna work, Lynnie. Really, I don't have much confidence in you after what happened. You just fucking **_**turned around_ – Christ, you had a goddamn _warning_ – and yet you let those bastards whack ya anyway! What the hell is wrong with you!? Jesus H. Christ, Lynné, I thought you would have learned by now to WATCH WHERE THE HELL YOU'RE GOING!_**

_I got away, didn't I? _Lynné thought coolly.

**_Only because Liam got your ass out of there, _**it reminded her venomously. **_But not, of course, before Poisson got a little momento._**

****Lynné could still feel Joséphine's eyes on her but she ignored the child's worried gaze and pushed the voice's furious rants to the back of her mind. Slowly, the world around her became clearer as her eyelids parted company with each other. Colors that gradually formed into objects came into view through the fluttering of her eyelashes.

_Fuck_ . . . He had rescued her. He – _Liam_ – had rescued her – probably saved her from certain danger. If he hadn't gotten her out when he did, there was a good chance she would have lost more than her leg.

**_And yet he couldn't _save _the fucking leg. Why do you think that is?_**

_He was on the verge of fainting, I don't know._

For the first time, Lynné realized, she was glad that Joséphine couldn't see her. She didn't want to think about how horrified the child would be if, when she had come hurrying into the bedroom, she had been met with the gruesome sight of a woman with no leg.

"Mademoiselle?"

**_Christ, she doesn't give up, does she?_**

****"Piss off, Josey," Lynné muttered dully, her words nearly indistinguishable through her barely moving lips.

"Vous _êtes_ éveillés," (You _are _awake,) the girl gasped triumphantly. "J'ai cru que vous étiez. Je pourrais répéter par votre respiration." (I thought you were. I could tell by your breathing.)

"Good for you, kid, but would it kill ya to leave me alone for a minute? I'm kinda preoccupied."

"Avec que?" (With what?) asked Joséphine, not one to be swayed by blatant dismissals. Fingers spread out in front of her, she skillfully made her way towards the bed, following the sound of Lynn's voice the entire time. Her small hands placed securely on the edge of the mattress

Lynné looked down at the pale, wide-eyed face that was framed by loose curls. Mildly surprised, she held the child's 'gaze' for a moment before her eyes went to her leg – or lack thereof. For once – the first time, Lynné imagined – they did not linger on the stump where the stolen appendage had been – _should _have been. Nor, she realized, did her mind. An odd grin creeping across her face, Lynné ignored the voice's gleeful cries of **_You've lost it! You've finally lost it! _**as she turned back to Joséphine.

"You're lucky I like you, kid, cuz if not, _that _little move would've gotten you killed."

**VVV**

Alarmed, but focused nonetheless, Zebbidy took her hands from Sands' shoulders in exchange for encircling her arms around his thin frame instead. She had to get him to lay down, she knew that, but in her experience with the injured, it was best to let a person get out whatever they were holding back before trying to make them do anything.

The agent was in shock. Something – a nightmare, she decided – had visited him while he slept. Through the feverish haze that hovered around him, a dream had come and scared him out of his senses. Zebbidy herself wasn't far behind him. She was stricken with worry while the man in her arms shook violently, rocking them both.

Sands' breath had been reduced to nothing but short, jerky gasps. As much as he struggled to take air in, he only succeeded in expelling a forced, irregular pant. He didn't know if he would go as far as 'pant.' Choke was more fitting, but whatever it was, it wasn't breathing.

'_If you don't breathe . . .you die_.'

Before, he had always taken that quote for granted. Snorting at how obvious it was, he had pointedly informed Lynné that if she said it one more time he'd make sure she took that last line with her to the grave. Literally. Now, however, he finally 'saw' what it truly meant.

Desperately trying to force his labored breathing out of its excruciating state, Sands replayed the last line of Christopher Durang's _Laughing Wild _through his head, despite how annoyed the voice was becoming.

'_If you don't breathe, you die. If you don't breathe, you die. If you don't . . ._'

Suddenly it was becoming all too painful to keep up his strenuous attempts at recovery. He had been shot in the chest; that's why it was so hard to do something so simple. Breathing, the process of inhaling and exhaling, was one of the simplest things a person could do. It was a cinch. One did it unconsciously it was that easy. As simple as . . .

**_. . . turning on a light? _**the voice finished coyly.

_Shut . . . up . . . _Sands managed to command, though it sounded more like a plea for relief.

"Are you all right?"

"I . . . said shut . . .up . . ."

That had to be the third time he'd spoken and his words hadn't been for her. If Sands' hitched breathing and terrified shivering weren't signs of the man's distress, then his voiced thoughts were. Through the shadows of the bedroom, Zebbidy could scarcely make out Sands' eyes, but there they were. Large and fearful, the dark orbs darted in every direction, leaving no corner overlooked as they searched for something they could not see. A sudden swell in her throat caught Zebbidy off guard as she tried fruitlessly to calm him.

"Sands," she began hesitantly, "no you didn't."

"Zeh . . . Zeb'dy?"

"Yes," she assured the agent, pulling him closer to her as if to confirm the fact. "What happened?" she asked him quietly.

"Noth-ing," Sands managed to choke out through the gasps that constricted his voice.

"Nothing . . . or something?" Zebbidy questioned, quoting something she failed to remember.

"Nightmare." He took in several deep breaths through his nose before continuing. "That . . . was all. Nothing . . . to worry . . . your pretty little h-ead . . . over."

"But I will anyway until I'm sure you're all right. So . . . care to tell me about it?"

"No," he murmured automatically with no trace of emotion. At least he was calming down, even if the difference wasn't entirely noticeable.

"Okay," Zebbidy said, unlike Lynné who would have carefully drawn information out of him. Instead, she let him go, dropping the subject until he was ready to pick it up again. Surprisingly, Sands was grateful for this, though even in his delirious state he doubted he would ever tell her that.

Loosening her embrace slightly, Zebbidy pulled her arm away to tuck one of Sands' more uncooperative strands of hair behind his ear. "Let me just make you some tea, all right? Herbal blends have never failed me yet."

Not waiting for a response, Zebbidy made to get up. Sands, however, seemed not to have heard her. He hadn't moved when she tried to get up, and he didn't move now. His breathing had slowed down until it had almost reached its normal pattern again. Still, his head remained where it was: Supported comfortably in the small dip between Zebbidy's shoulder and collarbone. He didn't want to move, and he didn't think she wanted to either.

"Sands," Zebbidy said softly but firmly. It was a tone that indicated that she was _trying _to be gentle but wanted him to obey her at the same time. He had to listen to her if she was to help him at all.

"Sands," she said again, this time in a stronger voice.

"Yeah," the agent muttered suddenly. As if realizing what he had been doing for the first time, he pulled away from her at once. "Yeah . . . okay . . ."

**VVV**

"Here," Zebbidy said once she returned. "This should help."

"What is it?" Sands asked suspiciously, rising gingerly from the hill of pillows he had been reclining against.

"Tea," Zebbidy answered, placing a warm mug in his hand. "With mint, of course. I would've put hops in it, but I only have the dried kind."

"Hops?" he repeated, arching an eyebrow skeptically.

"It's a plant that makes you sleep," she explained as she watched the agent pause right as the cup came to his lips. Lowering the mug of tea, Sands rolled his eyes. Before she had left, Zebbidy had switched the light on the nightstand on, making sure that it was at the lowest setting. Now in the dull glow of the room she could see the glazed look that lingered in his eyes and refused to leave. Even now, small beads of perspiration that still shined on his forehead.

"I know _that_," Sands informed her irately, "I'd just like to know how _you _acquired that knowledge."

Zebbidy shrugged off the suspicion easily with a mild, "Here and there."

Instead of asking what the hell she meant by that, Sands let Zebbidy's evading answer go and slowly leaned back into his pillows again. Propped up against the welcoming cushions, he lifted the warm cup of tea to his mouth and took a cautious sip.

_This's good. _

Zebbidy, hearing Sands' silent honesty, felt rather flattered until the agent finished his thought.

_But is it _too _good? Cuz at the moment, I can't afford to shoot her._

She felt her eyebrow rise with intrigue.

_Nah. It's good, but it's not _that _good._

"Do you have anything to read?"

So caught up in listening to his thoughts, Zebbidy didn't realize Sands had spoken until several seconds after the fact.

"Not that I think you could've snagged one while you were busy hiding from me." Sands was trying to make her regret her mistakes. After all, _she _was the reason he felt the way he did. And though Rosa may have brought on his blindness, if he hadn't been searching for Zebbidy, their encounter may have never happened. If Zebbidy hadn't run off, they could have gotten out of Poisson's mansion and away from the gunfire. There was a good chance he wouldn't have gotten shot, and an even better chance that he wouldn't have met Rosa. But that happened. All of it. So Sands felt obligated to make her feel guilty after what she had done.

Picturing a wince from Zebbidy, Sands continued offhandedly. "But I thought I'd ask anyway."

Blinking in confusion, she blurted out a choppy, "Oh . . . I think I did bring a book, actually."

Sands raised a brow, feeling for the nightstand he knew had to be there and set his cup upon it. "Which one?"

"I'm not sure," Zebbidy replied, shaking her head back and forth uncertainly. "Vincent smuggled it out of Poisson's library weeks ago, gave it to me, I put it in my purse, and then forgot about it. So, no, I don't know what book it is."

"Would it kill you to go and find out?" Sands asked sarcastically.

Zebbidy tilted her eyes skyward and shook her head but did as the man asked. Sands remained quiet all the while she was gone, finding it becoming increasingly difficult to speak. He pulled the blankets tighter around himself, allowing himself to be absorbed in the warmth they provided. By the time Zebbidy returned, he had all but drained his teacup and was nearly ready to be welcomed into the open arms of sleep, but not quite.

"So which book is it?" he asked drowsily after hearing her soft footsteps announce her presence.

"Da Vinci Code," Zebbidy informed him.

"Oh, good," Sands sighed as he successfully managed to stifle a yawn. "I was on Chapter Twenty-Six."

As soon as she held the red and gold colored book out to the agent, Zebbidy stopped short remember one awful, horrible, heart-wrenching fact: Sands was blind.

Or so he said, she reminded her self. But why would anyone lie about something so terrible? Did he know, perhaps, that she caught images of his past? Mere fragments that they were, they were Sands' past nonetheless and maybe he was toying with her, making her play the guilt card because she had left him with no explanation.

_But how would he know? _she wondered. _If he was like me, _I'd _know, and I'm sure no one has told him because _I _haven't told anyone._

Uncomfortable, she drew the book close to her chest, picking at its spine in the hopes of finding a distraction. It didn't work. She bit her lip, knowing that if she gave the book to Sands, he was bound to fly into a rage after being reminded of his condition, however, she could not keep standing there like a dolt. She couldn't.

Inhaling a deep breath through her mouth, Zebbidy closed her eyes and braced herself, still hugging the book like a shield. Finally, she chose to voice her question.

"How do you plan on reading it?"

Her voice was light, casual, and as breezy as if she had merely asked him how her tea had tasted. She had chosen that tone on purpose in the hope of not upsetting her obviously distressed roommate.

"Well I was hoping to listen to it if you would be so kind," Sands told her sarcastically.

_Score_, Zebbidy thought as she nodded slowly more to herself than to the one who had spoken. Without a word, she walked over to the bed and sat down next to Sands. She closed her eyes and, sighing in relief, flipped the book open and turned to Chapter Twenty-Six.

"Had you started the chapter yet or – "

"I was at the part where . . . the guy was talking to a bunch of inmates. He was getting into the whole . . . divine . . . goddess . . . thing. Something like that. I dunno." Sands shrugged wanting nothing more than to fall asleep again, but despite how worn out his body felt, his mind was wide awake. That last dream had given his brain one hell of a buzz, and it would be a while before it wore off.

"Okay," Zebbidy began readily, switching positions so she could be comfortable as she read. Sands heard the rustle of skirts – _She must still be wearing that dress _– and soon felt her warm weight lying next to him. The moment Zebbidy began to read, Sands' breathing slowed and his lids grew heavy. He crossed his arms over his stomach, sinking deeper into the pillows the entire time.

". . . _Langdon was not familiar with the brand name_," Zebbidy read, her soft words filling Sands' groggy head. He was so thankful for the silkiness of her voice. It provided the sultry, calming tone that the sleepy atmosphere so desperately needed. "_but he was glad to hear the prophylactic manufacturers had gotten their hieroglyphics right. 'Well done. Amon is indeed represented as a man with a ram's head, and his promiscuity and curved horns are related to our modern sexual slang 'horny . . .'_'"

**VVV**

_Geh! I'm so sorry. I know I promised to have this chapter up by Wednesday at the latest, but my week's been kinda hectic. I had district chorus all day Sunday, studying for geometry test Monday, thankfully nothing going on Tuesday, shopping for my Dad's birthday on Wednesday, studying for an extremely hard biology test on Thursday, and finally voice/piano lessons Friday. So, yeah, it's been insane. I hadn't predicted that, obviously, but I'm still sorry about not posting. But how could I when (creepy, high-pitched voice) school controls my miiiiiiind . . . ? O.O_

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**fanfiction fanatic: **Hey, thanks for reviewing :D Nice to know it's okay if some chapters are posted a little later than others. :)

**Dawnie-7: **Yeah, the sarcasm's back. It seems like no matter how injured he is, Sands can always manage to come up with a sharp response to everything. And the dream bitches (nice choice of title, btw) definitely need to go, but I don't know how easy that's gonna be :(

**Lynx Ryder: **It's so great to hear found Sands and the voice's conversation saddening. I was really worried that it would come off as boring, so that's why it's such a relief to hear that. :D I've tried focusing on something until I gain it (mostly whenever I'm running) but it doesn't usually work for me. And you don't sound negative! o.o It's good to hear that Sands' pain was well depicted. Lol, I dunno if I'd go as far as saint :) But Zeb really does care about the mental and physical health of others especially when they're in pain. But she can definitely lose her patients. It's a rare thing, but it happens. For the upcoming chapters, I'm planning on a (subtle) change of character for her. Up until now, I feel as though she hasn't been showing her true colors cuz the original character of Zebbidy is silky, smart, smooth, always has an answer for everything, can relate a single situation to several different songs, and has a deep passion for the well-being of others. Up until now, I don't think she's really been true to that character, but now that she's in her element, hopefully she will be. And, nah, Sands didn't tell Ajedrez anything save for his plan. He can make some rash decisions from time to time, but he's not _that _stupid ;)

**Invader Nicole: **You're lucky you get to read. I never have time for my books anymore :( But I found a book called _The Encyclopedia of Magic and Witchcraft _when I was at the mall on Wednesday :D!!! It's really interesting and it's got everything – literally, everything – a person might wanna know about witchcraft. Definitely worth buying. u.u Yes, the story is very long, oy vey . . . 9.6;; Geh, this is gonna be a long review cuz there's so much to tell you, so I'll just send you an e-mail :) And Lyn and Liam are okay. For the time being at least.

**DragonHunter200: **My best? O.O Thank you!!! Although, yeah, nothing compares to Alaska, not trying to sound arrogant but even I gotta admit that that was my personal favorite dream sequence. And, yes, I've got another childhood memory to write up and it'll most likely turn up in the next chapter. And somebody agrees with me about state testing! The one I have to take is the PSSA but they're all basically the same, stupid, unnecessary things. XP And conspiracy? Yes, definitely, especially since the government is responsible for the damn things.

o


	32. In the Morning

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Thirty-Two: **In the Morning

This was originally going to be the title of this story, actually, but then I changed my mind. I translated it in French to see if I liked it better but no dice. So, one day when I was flipping through my many sheets of music, I unearthed a song I hadn't heard in over a year: _Smoke Gets in Your Eyes_ by Otto Harbach (words) and Jerome Kern (music). The words, needless to say, fit the story perfectly but I still couldn't get _this _title out of my mind. It's one of Norah Jones' songs on her new CD – the same one I got title _The Long Way Home _from :) – and I really love how it sounds. It's to be a woman singing about the guy she loves, but the way it's written, she almost sounds like she's singing about cigarettes or at least comparing her lover to them – y'know, they're an addiction, she can't just quit them and all that jazz. (waves hand dismissively) Eh, you'll see what I mean cuz I'm posting them in the upcoming scene u.u

**VVV**

Zebbidy had read far into the evening until the purple blanket of night faded from the sky and a brilliantly orange sun surrounded by soft, pink clouds took its place. Sands had fallen asleep only three minutes after she had begun reading, but she had continued on, hoping that her voice would somehow act as a dam and block the nightmares that were sure to invade him.

So far, her plan seemed to be working. The agent hadn't so much as twitched since she'd begun to read. His expression had been calm, neutral . . . Certainly not peaceful, but impassive all the same. The cool mask at least assured her that, if he wasn't content, at least terrifying illusions were not tormenting him.

_Unlike me_, Zebbidy thought, placing the book on her lap to rub her eyes tiredly. They burned and stung in protest, insisting that she lay down and go to sleep, but Zebbidy ignored her orbs' warnings. With one last glance at the sleeping man next to her, she set _The Da Vinci Code _on top of the nightstand and slid off of the bed.

With her eyes fixed on the door, Zebbidy was utterly unaware of the hand next to her. As she stood, it trailed down her arm as easily as if it were merely sliding off, intending to make a neat landing onto the bed. Oblivious, Zebbidy had to extinguish a cry of shock when a sudden tug at her wrist caused to her to halt where she stood. Twisting her head around she immediately found the source of the problem: a hand was grasping hers, and since it clearly wasn't one of her own, she knew it could only belong to one other person.

"Somethin' wrong . . . ?" Sands' lips were barely parted making him nearly unintelligible as he voiced his question, but Zebbidy understood his every word, no matter how slurred or dazed they sounded.

She smiled slightly and returned his hand when she made her reply. "No, just try to get some sleep, all right?"

He closed his eyes and, nodding slightly and letting his head drop back onto the pillow, obeyed her without protest for the first time.

**VVV**

Tossing uneasily, causing the sheets to snake around his leg, Sands buried his face in his pillow to smother a moan of pain. Zebbidy's tea had worked, but only for a little while. It had soothed his ailing body and mind for the few blessed hours when he had been rewarded with well-deserved sleep. Now, however, he was awake and it seemed as though his time was up.

**_I _told _you, you should have asked her for some drugs –_**

_She doesn't _have _any drugs, _Sands explained in a pathetically helpless whine. _If she's into herbal remedies and shit like that, then I don't think she'll have anything like that._

_**Not even Advil? **_the voice asked skeptically.

_Doubt it, _he murmured, massaging his raspy throat. It had grown soar over the last few minutes, during which he had been clearing it continuously. Strange how it seemed that, no matter how many times he coughed, his throat remained clogged, his vocal cords stuck together with sticky mucus. Sands imagined that the wound in his chest may have had something to do with it, but he couldn't be sure. Lyn was the one who had almost achieved a medical degree, not him. He was sure, however, that clearing it too much and not drinking enough liquids had brought on the soreness of his throat, but he ignored the thought. At the moment, there were more pressing issues to be dealt with.

_Shit, where the hell is Lyn?_

_**Shot? Imprisoned? Dead?**_

_Don't . . . _

_**Don't what?**_

_Don't even fucking _suggest _that, okay? Just . . . don't._

_**Don't suggest what that she's been shot, imprisoned, or de –**_

_SHUT UP!!_

Drained, Sands turned over on his side, his eyes wide, and curled up into the smallest form possible. Wrapping his arms around his legs, he shivered involuntarily as horrible images invaded his mind. While he laid their like some stupid, weak, unhinged _blind man _his sister could be out there being tormented with Christ only knew what or lying close to death in the moldy, rat-infested cell that Poisson called his basement.

**_That'd piss her off. She won't even stay at a Motel 6 for Christ's sake . . . Picky bitch –_**

_Don't start with that._

_**What? She is a bitch. And don't give me that 'I'm-the-only-one-who-can-call-her-that' shit, because you're not.**_

_I know, _he snarled furiously, _but that doesn't mean you can say that about her if she's dead._

_**Oh, so you admit that she's dead?**_

****Sands froze. He stopped shaking, stopped thinking, stopped blinking and breathing. All movement stopped entirely as he tried desperately to recall what he had said.

_I . . . no . . . I don't know that, so I'll never admit to it . . . not until I see a body . . ._

_**And if the body isn't breathing?**_

_Then I guess ol' Durang was right, huh?_

And he promptly went back to shaking, the sarcastic retort not calming him in the least.

**VVV**

"_I can't stop myself from callin' _

_Callin' out your name._

_I can't stop myself from fallin'_

_Fallin' back again . . ._

_In the mornin' . . ._

_Baby, in the afternoon . . ._"

The soft music filtered throughout the suite. It had begun in the kitchen, but slowly it crawled outside, spreading its melody into the living room, through the small hallway that stood between the four rooms the suite held until it at last slipped under the cracks and broke through the hazy atmosphere of the bedroom.

"_Dark like the shady corner,_

_Inside a violin._

_Hot like to burn my lips –_

_I know I can't win,_

_In the mornin' . . ._

_Baby, in the afternoon . . ._"

Within the tiny kitchen, Zebbidy occupied herself with the stove, stirring up this, that, and whatever else she felt like throwing into the mix. She had ordered room service but kindly asked if they could send the food up uncooked, as she felt safer when she was her own chief. Considering who had raised her – _If you could call that being raised_, she snorted darkly – she felt paranoia was only to be expected.

"_I tried to quit you, but I'm too weak._

_Wakin' up without you,_

_I can hardly speak at all._"

Although cooking had never been her forte, Zebbidy felt content whenever she was inside a kitchen. Perhaps it had something to do with the 'homey' feeling that they provided, even if the one she was in seemed rather cold and plain for a kitchen.

When room service had brought up her order, Zebbidy had wasted no time in ushering the young man out of the room and whisking off to the kitchen, tray in hand. She had carefully diced two oranges, shoved two pieces of bread into the toaster, and then set to work what was left. When phoning the front desk, Zebbidy had been sure to order nothing incredibly fancy for breakfast, knowing that, after what he had been through, it would be best if he ate something light for a while.

"_My girlfriend tried to help me,_

_Get you offa my mind._

_She tried a little tea and sympathy,_

_To get me to unwind,_

_In the mornin' . . ._

_Baby, in the afternoon . . ._"

With a concerned glance into the bedroom, Zebbidy paused – her fingers balanced lightly on top of the surface of a delicate white eggshell – and wondered if her singing was disturbing the agent. From what she could see, Sands was asleep and, aside from the occasional shiver, all right for the time being. Breathing a sigh of relief, Zebbidy smiled sadly and continued her song.

"_Funny how my favorite shirt,_

_Smells more like you than me._

_Bitter traces left behind;_

_Stains that no one can see._

_In the mornin' . . ._

_Baby, in the afternoon . . ._"

Tongue poking between her teeth in concentration, Zebbidy broke an egg in two, watching as the orange-yellow yoke spilled into the pan below. She smiled in satisfaction when _crack _and _sizz-sizz _met her ears. She may have lost all sense of mind, but at least she could still cook and egg.

"_You're gonna put me in an early grave._

_I know I'm your slave whenever you call._"

Sands stirred at the odd noise that came drifting through his bedroom door. He had hears something like it before – many times, in fact – but now he couldn't place the sound.

**_Losing your sight can do that to ya_, **the voice informed him in a tone so calm it had to be pure evil. **_Y'know . . . it's strange . . . they say that, when one of your senses goes, the others get stronger to make up for it. Think that's true?_**

_No fuckin' way, _he responded tiredly. He tugged a pillow over his head, not sure if he was trying to block out the sound or put a stop to the sudden dizziness that had overtaken him. He shut his eyes as if that would block out all sound – after all, everything was already dark when he opened his eyes; maybe it would work. It didn't. The sound, whatever the fuck it was (music maybe? That sounded right) didn't waver in the least and the lightheadedness continued just as strong as ever. Only now it was spreading throughout his entire body.

"_I can't stop myself from callin'_

_Callin' out your name._

_I can't stop myself from fallin'_"

There it was again, that horrible, sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had been feeling it throughout the night, and he knew exactly what it was: nausea. It visited him every so often, coming and going as it pleased without a care as to what he thought. Each time it came, it had invaded his body, sending wave after wave of dizzying sickness crashing over him like an angry flood.

His thoughts were suddenly swimming in a limitless ocean, struggling to stay afloat and to maintain even a small grasp on reality. And each time the malaise departed, it left him unsteady and feeble, his head pounding and disoriented. Somehow, his aches had turned to pain, a breed so fierce it flared throughout his constantly reeling body, showing no mercy and thinking nothing of what he had already suffered through.

Pulling the blankets tighter around him, Sands closed his eyes again, willing it – almost begging it – to go away. But the illness that had infected his body was deft to his pleas.

"_Fallin' back again . . ._

_Fallin' back again . . ._"

He didn't know how much longer he could last. The voice had grown silent. Perhaps he simply couldn't hear it over the exertion it took to keep his mind off of the terrible feelings that rocked his body. Maybe the voice too was having difficulties controlling the same revolted urges he was having.

"_Fallin' back again . . ._"

He wasn't going to make it. He wasn't going to and that was all there was to it. But if that was true . . . he was blind . . . how the fuck was he going to know if he wasn't walking out onto a balcony instead of into a hallway . . . ?

'_I'll be right back. I just need to get a washcloth to clean those wounds. If you . . . If anything happens . . . I'll be in the bathroom._'

Zebbidy's words were being chanted inside his head. For once, he was thankful for the repetition's inability to end. It jogged his cloudy memory from its slumber, demanding it wake up and snap into action. If he could just retrace her footsteps . . . that was all the direction he needed in case he – without warning, his stomach gave a horrible lurch. He got the message. His own innards were desperate to escape his body, and even if they had to fight tooth and nail, they would do it.

"_In the mornin' . . ._"

That was the last line Sands heard before he ripped the thick layer of blankets off of him, leapt from the bed, and bolted out the door.

**VVV**

Zebbidy's green eyes widened in shock as the distinct sounds of stumbling and banging resounded throughout the hotel room. She dropped the spatula in her hand and hurried to find the source of the unexpected chaos only to stop dead in her tracks when a figure darted past her. The shape was moving so fast it was only a blur, but Zebbidy knew it could only have been one person.

Sands appeared not to have seen, heard, nor felt her presence in his mad dash through the darkness that bound him. In his haste, he didn't bother with closing the bathroom door. He merely bent over the toilette and Zebbidy knew what was coming.

She shut her eyes and turned away, not because her own stomach was weak, but out of what she supposed was a kind of respect for the agent. She knew that, had _he _known she was standing just outside the door, he would have been humiliated at the very thought of being seen in such a state. So instead, she was forced to listen to the grating sound of painfully violent retching.

_Dear gods, don't let him cough up any blood_, she begged desperately, thinking of the bullet that had torn through Sands' chest and twitching her nose with worry.

The horrible sounds of projectile vomiting seemed to go on for ages and Zebbidy kept her head away the entire time. The excruciating qualms continued relentlessly, stopping only to allow a low whimper to escape the kneeling man and then starting all over again.

Sands gasped, his breath ragged, as yesterday's small lunch and pitifully meager breakfast left through his mouth looking nothing like themselves. But the terribly nauseating feeling was still deep inside of him, and so repeated the process again . . . and again . . . and again . . . choking out whatever little food was still inside of him until the awful feeling of revulsion had finally passed.

**VVV**

A burning sensation ran from his guts to his mouth, but at least the worst was over. For now.

_Oh God, I don't wanna do that again . . ._

Chest heaving, throat burning, body aching, Sands pressed his forehead to the rim of the bathtub, letting the edge's cool surface be absorbed into his own enkindled skin. His stomach hurt worse than before now, but at least it was empty. There was no way he could so much as spit out anything now, and even if there was anything left inside of him, he didn't think he would have been able to muster the energy to lose any of it.

Funny how he couldn't recall the last time he'd thrown up. He knew he had before this . . . _Probably when I was a kid and had the flu or something_, he muttered, shutting his eyes painfully. _I don't think I've ever been _wasted_ enough to . . . _

Letting out a slow, breathy noise that was a cross between a sigh and a moan, he pushed his head into the edge of the tub, willing its icy glaze to put out the fire that had entered his body. This only earned him a splitting headache on top of the two he was already enduring. He turned around, drawing his legs up so they could act as a resting-place for his head which had suddenly grown unbearably heavy over the past few minutes.

A hand had taken the side of his face but not roughly. It was gentle as it turned his throbbing head to the left and gentle still as its mate dabbed his temple with a moist, sweet smelling cloth. Gradually, he found himself leaning against the person as they pulled him towards them. He felt a feather-light arm drape across his bruised shoulders as the person carefully brushed a few strands of hair out of his face and continued to sponge the sweat from his forehead.

"How're you feeling?" Zebbidy asked finally.

"Like shit," Sands replied tonelessly.

That got a smile out of her; he could hear it when she said, "I figured that, but I thought I'd ask just to be sure."

"Mmmh . . ." was all he said as she charily touched the moist washcloth to his cheek. "What's that?" he wanted to know after a while.

"Oh," she started in mild surprise. "Lavender. I put the leaves into the cloth while I was folding it. It's for peace, happiness, sleep, protection . . . among other things. I'm just lucky Poisson had some in that oil painting he calls a garden."

Sands couldn't help but notice the bitterness her voice took on when she mentioned where she had gotten the little flowers. Édouard Poisson was not everyone's favorite person, but Zebbidy's words seemed to hold an exceptional hatred whenever she spoke of him. Zebbidy seemed to have noticed as well, and that put her on edge. Shifting in an almost uncomfortable manner, she laid her lavender scented cloth on the rim of the tub, taking care not to let Sands topple over. Her nose wiggling the smallest fraction, she gazed down at the agent through worried eyes and gave a sad sigh.

"Come on," she whispered, gently looping her arm through his. "Let's get you back to bed."

**VVV**

_Just as a note, there will be more childhood flashbacks in the near future, trust me. I originally had one scheduled for this installment but I wanted to get all of this out in one chapter without having to extend it into two, so I cut the dream sequence and am throwing it into the next installment instead._

Sands: So . . . in a way . . . you _are _extending this into two chapters.

Sidney: But not really.

Sands: (skeptical eyebrow-arch) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Sidney: But I kinda am.

Sands: (still the skeptical eyebrow-arch) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Sidney: . . . . . . I don't know. e.e

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**Dawnie-7: **Yeah, taking her leg . . . XP It's so very wrong . . . and Lyn's none too happy about it, although I think the voice might be angrier. But how did they _know _about the leg??? (shifty-eyes) I shouldn't've brought that up. It invokes suspicion, but oh well. I dunno if I'd really call it _bonding_ but then I don't know what else you _would _call it, so I guess that works. :) And I'm with you. Sands may not like pity, but after what he's been through . . . really, what more _can _you say?

**Lynx Ryder: **It's a good play/monologue, definitely. I highly recommend reading it. u.u lol, that's probably the only way Lyn would admit to liking anybody: by telling it to them in a pure, flat-out threat. Sands admitting defeat? Nah, not gonna happen unless he's saying it to trick somebody, which, if that be the case, I can totally see him doing. Blah, herbal teas . . . XP Never liked 'em, don't know if I ever will. Putting mint in tea isn't bad though, I've gotta admit, but then again, I'm like addicted to all things mint so that probably has a lot to do with it. u.u Yeah, Sands is such an ungrateful creep at times – make that all the time, but isn't that why we love him?

Sands: (is doing that skeptical-eyebrow-thing again) -.9

Sidney: Maybe, maybe not. And I thought that reading to him was a relaxing idea too, so I'm very glad to hear that from you :D

**morph: **Don't worry, everything should be okay in the end. And there will definitely be more mind-reading to come u.u Oh, and . . .

Sands: (does an offhanded wave while making a tequila) u.u

Sidney: (apologetically) Eh . . . that's about as enthusiastic as he's gonna get. Sorry. Hmm . . . maybe I should try getting him high again . . .

Sands: -.9

Sidney: o.o Or not.

**fanfiction fanatic: **lol, yes, learning telekinetic abilities _is_ a time-burning to say the least. I know it's taken me a good portion of four years to get mine down and they still aren't that great.

**DragonHunter200: **Liam's gonna be in the next chapter a lot! Don't worry! :) I still think it's so sweet that so many people like him. And there will be a childhood moment, too, like I said above :D o.o And I will have to get that copy of _Rolling Stone_. I just ordered _The Rum Diary _from the local bookstore but it won't be in for another week or two, geh . . . but hopefully if I'm able to snag a copy of the magazine, it'll make waiting easier.

o


	33. Of Moxie, Manikins, and Memories

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Thirty-Three: **Of Moxie, Manikins, and Memories

Many flashbacks in this chapter, ones that I hope are enjoyable. I think I've said this before but it has been unbelievably hard to insert childhood memories into this story. During Home, it was easier because they were necessary; they served a purpose. The scenes about Sands and Lynné's childhood told a lot about who they were and, more importantly, _why _they act the way they do. In this story, however, it's a little harder because, while they are fun to write, they don't fit with what's going on. Dream sequences containing Sands and Ajedrez's relationship, former loves . . . those kind of things slip into the plot easier than childhood memories do. They relate to what's going on, whereas the memories sorta don't. But I'm trying my best to fit them in anyway, so I hope you guys enjoy them. :)

**VVV**

". . . and then, I rolled down my window . . . and chucked the bouquet right before Sands drove off." Lynné smiled at the memory, adjusting the knob of her pistol leisurely. "And that was my wedding day."

"Nice," commented the man who was supposed to have killed her long ago. "Can't say I can relate. I've yet to find that 'special someone.'"

"You make it sound like Timmy Rhodes was him." She gave a short, dry laugh and shook her head. "He wasn't. Not for me, anyway. My stepsister, however . . . now, she would say different."

"Would she?" he asked lightly.

"Hope so," Lynné replied with another wry grin. "He's her husband."

Her would-be assassin took his eyes away from the night sky to give her an intrigued side-glance.

"So tell me, the night before your wedding . . . were you going around singing _I'm Getting Married in the Morning_?" He shrugged absently. "It sounds likely after you told me you liked musicals."

She smirked, taking a sip of her Tom Collins and staring out at the same star he was. "As a matter of fact . . ."

They shared a quiet laugh but it ended quickly. While they were both exceptional marksmen, neither of them had much experience in the area of good-natured humor. Decided to break the icy moment of silence, the hired hit man made a proposal.

"So, how was your childhood?"

Lynné snorted. "Why d'you wanna know?"

He gave another mild shrug, not offended by the sharpness of her tone in the least. "I told you about mine. Wouldn't you say it's only fair for you to fill me in on yours?"

"No, because I never _asked _about _yours_," she countered pointedly. "You just launched into a story without my consent. So don't try and pull that shit with me, because people have been using it on me for years and, quite frankly, it's gettin' kinda old."

Holding up his hands in defense, he nodded, understanding this.

"Very well," he said reasonably. "Does that mean you're not gonna tell me?"

Rolling her eyes but obliging nonetheless, Lynné sighed, "I grew up in Colorado. My mom died when I was three. I have a drunk for a stepmom, one obnoxious stepsister who I cannot _wait _to kill, one stepsister who is fairly tolerable when she finally stops crying, a darling older brother who's a corrupt, amoral bastard, and then there's my father." Her voice became several octaves lower as a dark look clouded her wan face.

"What was he like?" the assassin asked quietly.

"Loud, tyrannical, pushy, closed-minded, unaffectionate, sexist . . . the works. He didn't and still doesn't like me because I'm female." She sighed once more, narrowing her eyes at something off in the distance.

"Least you didn't kill yours," he said fairly, though Lynné thought she detected a hint of resentment in his tone.

"If I recall correctly, you said that your dad died of liver failure. And besides . . ." She took a long, slow drink of her beverage, savoring its tangy flavor. "I never said I didn't try to ax mine."

"_Tried_?" he prodded curiously.

She waved a careless hand at him. "Long story. Basically, I was pissed at him, we had an argument, I started telling him what I thought of his parenting skills, and then he hit me." She paused, examining her fingernails nonchalantly. "That was a new method for him. Usually when I go off on a tangent, he'll yell until I box him into a situation he can't get out of. But this time . . . I must've struck a nerve, cuz he was _not _a happy camper.

"Tell me," she began, the conversation taking a sudden turn, "would you mind if I asked you something?"

"Depends on what you wanna ask," he explained smoothly.

She shrugged wearing an expression of bored indifference. "Just a proposal of my own. More of an offer, if you think about it."

"And what're you offering?" he asked, holding out a hand expectantly.

"Kill him," she stated simply. "Get on a plane, fly out to Colorado, and shoot my father."

"Lyn –" he began tiredly.

"It wouldn't be hard," she assured him with the utmost confidence. "He doesn't even have one of those state of the art security systems, which is stupid once you think about it cuz he a governor, that and the fact that everyone he's ever met wants to kill him."

"I still don't think –"

"I'll pay you," Lynné offered, trying a new tactic.

He shook his head. "I'm a top-ranking hit man, Lynné. You can't afford me."

"You'd be surpris – " Lynné's words were cut off abruptly, letting her half-finished sentence hovering awkwardly in the air. Pushing all of her concentration to the limit, she honed in on a lone object that was drawing ever closer. Noticing her silence and the intensity in her eyes as she glared down at growing the vehicle, the assassin stood, careful not to lose his balance on slick shingles of the roof. It was a car – a SUV. But from the distance it resembled a big, hulking, blue box on wheels instead of a car. Box or not, he never took his eyes from the vehicle as it slowly moved towards the rented home.

"That's Fusco," he heard Lynné mutter.

Turning his head sharply, he demanded, "Who's that?"

"The rookie the CIA stuck me with," she answered, a sour expression crossing her face. "My partner in crime, so to speak." She shook her head as a cloud drifted through the sky and temporarily eclipsed the moon, darkening the already shadowy mask that Lynné wore.

"What's he doing here?" he demanded, on edge and already reaching for his gun. "It's three in the fucking morning."

"Don't have a Goddamn clue," Lynné murmured, shaking her head in confusion. "You'd better skeedaddle, though, sweetie pie. Don't wanna be caught by America's intelligence agency, do ya?"

She winked and he allowed her to see a brief smile before the sound of crunching gravel sliced through the peaceful quiet of the night. Her attention snared, Lynné's head snapped around. She felt her eyes narrow as she watched the SUV roll to a stop. No sooner had its headlights gone out when the tall figure of Agent Fusco emerged from the large blue vehicle. Lynné saw him cast a few nervous glances around the perimeter, almost as if afraid that he had been followed. _Or is being watched_, she mused silently. She shook her head at the twitchy agent, sizing him up as he tried to enter the house.

Deciding that he was of no threat (at the moment), she thought it best to leave him be. He was an obsequious, intelligent young boy; he'd be able to figure out how to break into a house on his own. At the moment, she had a more interesting being to deal with. A being that she had to see off. When she turned around, however, she was a second too late. Her killer was gone, blending perfectly against the black and silvery-grays of the night.

**VVV**

**_God, _why _did you let him slip away like that? Do you _know _how hard it is to find a man like him these days? Do you? _**The voice was livid and it wasn't making a single attempt to contain its anger. But while Lynné silently agreed and was kicking herself over it, she was not about to admit anything.

_He was a crude, amoral asshole who wanted to get in my pants. Yes, it is so _very _hard to find a man like that anymore._

_**He was more than that, Lynné**_, the voice murmured seriously. **_You know that. His childhood was just as fucked up as yours was. Worse, even. He lived the same life of neglect and antipathy that you've lived. And because of that, he saw things on the same level you did. He was someone you could_ relate _to and, more importantly, _talk to _without being taken for a total nut case._**

_I don't care if people think I'm a little deranged, all right? I never have._

_**I know, **_the voice assured her feigning understanding. **_What I'm saying is, he was the only person who would've taken your word for something. He knew that, no matter how insane you may have seemed, you had your priorities together. Well . . . 'til you fuck up, of course._**

****Lynné sighed and closed her eyes as she tilted her head back against the headboard of her bed.

_You're never gonna let that one slide, are ya?_

_**I should hope not, **_the voice groused disgustedly. **_Face it, Lynnie, you fucked things up. You knew that three years ago the moment Harrington hung up on you. And as soon as Barillo's limousine pulled up in front of you, things started to go downhill. And that had an impact on the both of us. So let's see . . _. should_ I forgive you? I think not._**

****Reluctantly, Lynné cast a miserable glance at the empty folds of her dress. Instead of one, there should have been two hills in the crimson material that indicated where each of her legs lay. But there was only one, and there was nothing she could do about it. She still had her spare prosthetic limb with her, but it wasn't the right one. No, the one that had been taken had been the one Liam's brother had made for her. The one that looked real – as real as it could get. There was no way it hell it could have ever made up for her real leg, her first leg, her _own _leg. The one with the ivy vine that looped around her ankle. . . . Or the tattoo she had on the bottom of her foot that spelled out in neat script _LS_. . . . Or the clunky, cork-heeled shoe with the black leather straps that criss-crossed all the way around her foot and up until they wrapped twice around her ankle. . . . _That _was the leg she was thinking of. The one she mourned for.

_Fuck. _Mourn_? I'm losing my edge . . ._

But why shouldn't she when all she had to work with was a peach colored plastic model that grew painful after only five hours of wear? The false limb was so obviously fake, she had always thought spitefully, that to look at it, one would think she had stolen it from one of the manikins at JC Penny's.

**VVV**

Eyes darting fretfully and fingernails in his mouth, Liam treaded across the floor of the living room, retracing his steps over and over again in one continuous patter. First he would walk towards the left of the room, but then, just as he reached the TV, he would make a sharp pivot and, in the opposite direction, stride until he reached the large, red reclining chair in the corner. He was going to wear a hole in the rug if he kept pacing like that, but that was his last concern.

_How could I have let them just _do _that? _Why _couldn't I have saved it? They didn't need to take it . . . they had no reason to._

_But they're mobsters, _he reminded himself_. They're sick like that. They don't need any reason to do anything aside from knowing that it'll make someone out there miserable._

He slowly came to a stop in the middle of the room. He looked around the room, searching for anything that could steal his attention away from the problem he was now facing, but it was no use. Nothing grabbed him, nothing had him hooked; it was all so bland, now. The warmth and homey vibes of the living room had vanished, only to be replaced by a chill so eerie it scared Liam to be in the room. Or perhaps that was the guilt he was feeling for having done what he did. It had been a terrible, horrible, blasphemous thing, after all.

**VVV**

The moment Sands sat up, he wanted to lie back down again. In front of him, everything was moving in circles. The oranges, tans, and yellows of his bedroom had been slammed together in a constantly spiraling vortex of color. The dark brown furniture that filled his room had been picked up, thrown, and collided with each other, spinning and morphing effortlessly. By now his room looked less like a bedroom and more like a tye-dyed T-shirt that may have shown up in the beginning of _The Wizard of Oz_ when everyone was still trapped in a world where everything was brown.

He fell back onto his bed, closing his eyes and wishing that something – anything – would make the spinning stop. And then, quite suddenly, it did. The world around him came to an abrupt halt, and although his eyes were closed, Sands felt it. His lids slowly flickering open, he pushed himself into a sitting position, taking care not to jar his already dizzy mind.

Carefully, he rose completely and slipped off of the bed. As soon as his bare feet touched the icy cold floor beneath them, his automatic instinct was to jump back into his wonderfully warm bed. The idea was tempting, but he knew that if he went through with it, someone – most likely a very _angry _someone – would soon come barging through the door, demanding he get up.

So Sands decided to suffer through the cold and made the long, frozen trek from the bed to the door, his feet growing stiffer with every step.

When at last he reached the kitchen, his entire body was numb with cold but Sands ignored it, figuring that once he had eaten something heated, he'd be fine. The spoon weighed his hand down greatly when he picked it up, so much that Sands had to struggle to keep from dropping it.

His father had barely acknowledged him when he entered the kitchen. But that was normal. The most Sands ever got out of him in the morning was a short nod or a disapproving glare that was usually directed towards his hair or clothing. If his mother had any kind of greeting for him – for she usually did – Sands never noticed it. As for his sister, she was preoccupied with her own agenda, which was to diligently and correctly form words from her Alphabits Cereal. Already Sands could see that she had successfully managed to spell out several words.

_Stupid brat. Why does she have to be so smart?_

Eyeing the little girl beadily from over the top of his newspaper, his father grunted a "Don't play with your food, Beatrice," and went back to his reading.

Lynné looked up at him, her dark eyes large, and blinked. Her expression remained one of bemused surprise before her brows narrowed and she stuck her tongue out at the front of the Wednesday paper. Sands saw the corners of her mother's mouth twitch as she tried to hold back a smile whereas his father made no sign to show that he had even seen Lynné's action.

Shaking his head at the little girl's immature behavior – _he _had outgrown making faces years ago – Sands tuned them all out by turning his attention to his breakfast. As soon as his eyes fell onto the plate before him, he had an immediate sense of regret. He was still freezing but somehow the thought of eating anything, warm or cold, seemed like a bad idea. The scent of scrambled eggs already sent his head spinning, but to be seeing the whipped, yellow, brain-like substance right in front of him . . . Sands shut his eyes tightly, hugging his sides. He didn't want to look anymore. He felt sick and the smell of eggs wasn't helping.

"Sweetie? Are you all right?" In an instant, his mother was at his side, having abandoned her attempts to get Lynné to actually eat her cereal to swoop down on her son instead. He felt her hand on his chin as she gently lifted his face upward. Blearily, Sands opened his eyes to see that his mother's beautiful face was lined with concern.

His only answer was a small cough, but that was enough for her. After a second with her hand on his forehead she scooped him up and hurried out of the kitchen.

Lynné had watched the scene with interest, but now that her mother and sibling had departed, she was bored. She scanned the room, looking for anything to occupy her mind with, when her eyes trailed downward and lead her to her cereal bowl.

She sat there for a few moments, looking the bowl up and down before finally seizing a handful of Alphabits in her tiny fist and hurling them across the table at her father's newspaper. The black and white print was slammed down immediately, revealing her father's face. It was livid with fury as it glared out at the world, searching for the source of the disturbance and completely oblivious to the scattered letters/cereal in front of him. Delighted by his ignorance, Lynné laughed.

Upstairs, a dark haired woman gently pulled the covers around him with every ounce of a mother's care. That made sense. She was, after all, his mother. A sympathetic smile and pure solace was all she could offer him at the moment, but it wasn't like he was asking for anything else.

"I think you may have a cold, sweetheart," she told him, not one to hide the truth from her children. "Probably the flu. It's going around."

"Are you gonna make me go to the doctor?" he asked warily. Even though he had only been alive for seven years, he was already suspicious of medical personnel of any brand.

The sad smile, now lined with amusement, was back on her face for a brief moment while she sat down on the edge of his bed. Carefully smoothing down her dark gray skirt, she answered his question.

"Only if it gets really bad, and it doesn't look that way. You just need to rest for a while, that's all. And I'll pick up some Tylenol on the way home from work."

Sands sat up at this.

"You're not gonna stay?" he asked, hating the urgency that made his voice rise a few octaves.

"I can't, honey, you know that. Besides, Rivka be here –"

"Stupid maid . . ." Sands muttered crossly, drawing the blankets more tightly around him. "I can't even tell what she's saying."

"Which is one of the reasons I keep pushing for teaching Russian in schools," his mother retorted calmly, the corners of her mouth twitching as her son scowled up at her.

"Get some sleep, darling," she murmured softly as she bent down and kissed his slightly torrid forehead.

"Only if you stay," he protested, making vain attempts to stay awake that only resulted in partial success. He wanted to hear her response, although he knew before she spoke what her answer would be. It didn't matter. He still wanted to hear her. She was fading quickly; drifting away from him like a bright cloud in a storm. Everything else had turned black, while she alone remained white, a combination of every color in the world.

She had said something. He knew she had. But the words had been so muggy . . . It was as if they weren't words at all just an odd combination of noises that had been strung together to form one blurred noise. If his mother had said anything at all, Sands hadn't heard a word, having already succumbed to sleep's extraordinary power.

**VVV**

Sands had been asleep for nearly thirty-two hours. Over the long course of time, he had been fading in and out of consciousness but even when he was awake he had had nothing to say to Zebbidy. It wasn't that he had been quiet. During his brief spells of awareness, he had called out to many people, but she had never met a single one of them, and none of them were she.

He had been writing in his bed, twisting and turning every which way and muttering a series of words that she didn't understand. Zebbidy bit her lip, feeling a lump rising in her throat. She shoved it back down at once, determined and refusing to be shaken by anxiety.

Throughout her medical studies she had often seen young children with blazing temperatures, but despite the intensity of their conditions, she had been able to treat them all easily. Looking back on it, she didn't think that those children had been as sick as she had first assumed. Those cases had been nothing more than a game of Doctor compared to what had been shoved into her hands now. She had never known a fever to rage like the one that tormented Sands, especially inside of an adult.

Zebbidy bit her lip, her mind a giant mass of worry and confusion as she took in the image of a man in the midst of unbearable suffering. Bullet wounds . . . blood loss . . . shock . . . fever . . . possibility of infection – she couldn't be sure that she had removed all of the wood from Sands' shoulder. All of those things had been thrown on top of Sands unasked for and unwanted.

_There's something else, though, _she thought, concern shining within her vibrant green orbs. She couldn't blame him. If she had learned anything over the past five months it was that Sands trusted no one. No one at all. Not even his own sister, not entirely. From what she had gathered, the agent had always been that way, but something had increased his distrust in people. _But what the hell is it??_

She didn't know, and from the looks of things, she never would.

_If I could just dig into his pas –_

Zebbidy never finished. She didn't have the chance to. At that moment, an image hit her with a force that sent her body flying, her arms flailing, and her mind reeling.

**VVV**

_Well, it's 3:13 in the morning, my eyes are bloodshot, I'm probably gonna sleep the rest of the day away, but at least I'm done. 6.6;; God, I don't know why this chapter took so long to write. I knew from the start what I was gonna put in it and yet by the time Friday night rolled around I only had scenes One and Three partially finished. Everything else still had yet to be written. 9.6; Blah . . . I never thought I'd say this, but . . . I need sleep. O.e_

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**Lynx Ryder: **It's so nice to hear that you think Zeb seems like an actual person. Especially since I'm constantly worry about her Mary Sue-nes 9.6; I know what you mean about the characters being unaware, but, it's true, if I didn't like it to a point, I wouldn't keep putting those kind of situations in the story, right? Same thing goes for dream sequences and flashbacks, although I don't hate those at all :D

**Dawnie-7: **I can't remember the last time I was truly sick like that, but I do remember that nasty taste in my mouth XP Really, I just went from what came to mind on that scene, and, with a little help from my good friend the thesaurus, learned about twenty different ways to say 'throw up' ;D

**fanfiction fanatic: **Haha, yes, uhhh . . . concentration is the key (shrug) Or something like that. Oh! And you liked the chapter :) Always good to hear that.

**morph: **Oddly enough, writing out Sands' pain is rather easy once I get started. Is that right? It can't be right. u.u;; Anyway, you know what they say, getting there is half the fun – but being shot and reliving a nightmare isn't exactly fun, is it? I would think not. Ah well, it's 3am like I said, so I'm not surprised if I'm a bit incoherent.

**DragonHunter200: **Good to know you thought I described everything well. o.o; Like I said earlier, I can barely remember being as sick as Sands was in the last chapter and for something like that I really think you have to go from experience, it was a little difficult. I know, Thompson's amazing, isn't he? I love his writing style. Like you said, thought provoking yet funny. How does he do it?? One of life's mysteries, I suppose. Hoped you liked the childhood flashbacks! :D

o


	34. Closer

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Thirty-Four: **Closer

This just in: I've just had a new idea for a OUaTiM fic! It's actually pre-Mexico, so anyone who loves flashbacks should enjoy it :) Only problem is, I don't know if I should start writing it now or start it _after _I'm done with this one. Hmm . . . decisions, decisions . . . I'll sleep on it and let ya know, 'kay? :)

Oh, and this also just in: I finally got my own copy of _Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas_! :D!!! I'd read it before, but not all of it since I was borrowing it from a friend. She needed it back when she moved to Main, so I hadn't been able to finish it. But now I can! Yay! (shrug) Just wanted to let ya know. :)

**VVV**

"Th-three miles . . ."

"And you walked?"

The last vision had brought Zebbidy to a large, expensive hotel room both like and unlike the one she had sought refuge in. Like it because of its lavish and obviously expensive decorating, but unlike her suite due to the rustic feel the interior had taken on. This was one of those hotels that had been made up to give residents the feeling that they were roughing it. By living in a faux great outdoors visitors were given a false sense of adventure, made the men feel rugged, and the women got the romance they so sorely deserved . . . and no one even needed to get their hands dirty.

"Three m-miles, s-s-six hours . . ."

Zebbidy stared in fascinated horror at the shivering form of a younger Agent Sands, his sister's face contorted with rage, and a confused and concerned blonde girl that she did not know. The trio of young adults sat huddled together on a large bed, both girls on either side of the frigid young man in a drastic attempt to warm him.

"God, Dad . . . that –"

She watched as Lynné was interrupted when a sharp, rapping cut through the air. In one synchronized movement, all three of them turned their heads towards the sound and Zebbidy, still deep within her timorous stupor, felt her neck craning around with them.

"That'll be room service," the blonde said, slowly sliding off of the bed and moving towards the door.

Zebbidy watched the scene play through like she was watching a movie. Better yet, a play. In plays, it was if she was right there with the actors because she really was with them. Unlike in the movies where their images merely stared down at her, outrageously magnified by the gigantic screen. Yes . . . her visions were exactly like a play. They were all contained within the same room, she was the audience who watched the scene unfold, and Sands, Lynné, and the smaller girl were the actors, completely unaware of her presence.

During the time it took the nameless blonde to open the door, Zebbidy felt her eyes trailing away as the girl accepted the stack of blankets and a mug of tea from the rather bewildered bellboy. Before she knew it, she was staring at the sullen picture of the two siblings. It touched something deep inside of her. Some deep and terrible sadness that had not been disturbed in a long time.

"I can't believe he did that," the little blonde was saying as she hurried over to Sands' side. Zebbidy watched as the agent accepted the blankets but refused the tea. He closed his eyes, creases of pain forming upon his young face.

"Believe i-it," Sands told her, his voice quavering from the cold that shook him so terribly. "And you t-two don't h-have to s-s-it so close . . . I'm f-fine –"

"_Sands_," the blonde scolded with a churlishness that Zebbidy felt wasn't a common tone of voice for her. She seemed to have lost her angry touch just as soon as it had appeared because the young girl fell silent, unsure of what else to say.

"Don't think we wanna stay," Lynné shot back, making up for the other girl's falter. "Christ knows _I _certainly don't. It's just that I'd rather not deal with the mess when your heart stops because you became too warm too quickly."

Despite his violent shivering Sands still managed to send a venomous glare in Lynné's direction. His sister, however, was used to this and completely unafraid of the look that usually shut others up immediately.

"So . . . you two were headed back to the hotel, he was driving, unfortunately, and you got into a fight . . ." Lynné held out her hand, staring at her brother expectantly.

"And he th-rew m-my ass out . . . in the s-now," Sands snapped angrily, wincing at the terrible cold that refused to leave his stiff and frozen body. "What m-more . . . of an ex-planation . . . do you . . . n-need?"

Lynné rolled her eyes, unmoved by the harshness of his voice, and continued calmly. "What were you fighting about?"

Sands gave what appeared to be a shrug, though it was difficult to tell through all of the shaking.

"I t-told you . . . the u-usual s-st-uff."

_Fuckin' liar_, Zebbidy heard Lynné thinking. "Gracie," she said suddenly, "Would you mind going down to the front desk and getting some tea?"

"But . . . there's tea right here," the blonde – 'Gracie' – pointed out, staring at the other girl uncertainly.

"I know that, Grace, but there's always the chance that we'll need some more. Did that _ever_ occur to you?"

With a small sigh, the girl called Grace, knowing she was being thrown out, tossed her eyes to the ceiling, rose from the bed, and left the room without another word.

"Now," Lynné began after the sound of a door closing – _A little too loudly,_ Zebbidy thought – had grown faint, "what did you two fight about? It must've been something major to piss him off enough to abandon you in the middle of Alaska."

Zebbidy felt her eyes widen in unimaginable horror.

"If you r-really m-ust know . . ." Sands sighed as he fought to overcome the ice that was piercing his very skin, turning it raw and red around his ears and nose. He glanced up at his sister, his eyes aphotic and serious, and uttered but one word: "You."

That was all Zebbidy heard before the familiar spinning sensation quite literally swept her off her feet, letting her know that she was being dragged away by brutal reality.

**VVV**

_Oh my gods . . ._ Zebbidy's thoughts were losing all sense and she struggled to maintain control over what little sanity she had left. _His father . . . he threw him out of the car?? He only looked about nineteen years old . . . Dear gods, it's a wonder he didn't die . . . And where was the mother in all this!? _

No one answered her questions via voice or mind. Zebbidy had grown accustomed to this as a child. Whenever she had been sent to her bedroom for some stupid reason, she was left all alone. This was, of course, her grandfather's idea of punishment for the little girl. Unfortunately, it had worked. Being isolated from the rest of the world and a desperate yearn for someone to talk to had driven Zebbidy to screaming her thoughts inside her head to actually voicing them, albeit, quietly so as not to arouse her grandfather's suspicions. Because of this, she had learned to keep her thoughts mostly to herself, never speaking, not even when the time was right. But then she had left for college – _American _college – and things had changed. She had gone to a place where people knew her thoughts no matter how quiet they were. And, slowly, she had learned the power of speech all over again.

_And now the process is being reversed after all of that . . . _

But there was no time for mournful thoughts about her past. There was no time for sympathizing for herself. Right now, she had an injured person in her care, and they were her main priority.

Sands had his arms spread out in front of him as if trying to touch something he could not see. As she accepted the scene before her, a terribly miserable thought struck Zebbidy: In that position, Sands looked every bit the stereotypical blind man. _Except he's lying down_, she mused, her thoughts laced with sadness.

Quietly, she walked to the bed and, crouching down beside him, slowly reached out to take one of his hands in hers. But just as her fingertips brushed his own, Sands shot up in a panic, completely unaware of his injuries and panting for breath. Zebbidy was barely able to back away in time.

"Did you see what happened to Lyn?" the agent demanded in a rush.

Her initial reaction was to say 'She was on the bed with you,' but at once Zebbidy realized that Sands had no clue she had seen his past. "I don't know," she murmured, shaking her head as she watched the severely distressed expression on his face melt away and change to stunned confusion in mere seconds.

"You . . ." He swallowed hard. "You didn't see her?"

"Not after she left to investigate those shots we heard," Zebbidy answered quietly.

Sands let out a slow sigh in response and fell back onto the bed, the picture of defeat. Zebbidy observed him carefully. He had run out of ideas, she realized, and he didn't know what to do now.

"Fuck," the agent muttered, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "Why is this happening?"

The next thing Zebbidy knew, she was sitting next to him on the bed, gently stroking his hair, and marveling at how utterly vanquished he looked. He hadn't even bothered to swat her hand away, something she thought he normally would have killed her for.

"I'm not sure," she replied softly. Sands looked slightly startled that someone had answered him. Clearly, the question had been directed towards himself and not to her, but Zebbidy brushed that idea aside. If she could just find something to enlink everything together . . . Lynné and Liam's disappearance . . . Rosa Hernandez business with Poisson . . . Sands' sudden . . . loss . . . Zebbidy bit her lip, now feeling in very much the same position Sands was in. What _were _they going to do? Why _was _this happening?

_Me_, she realized, the thought suddenly striking her like a punch in the face. _Shit . . . I shouldn't've gone to the authorities. I should've just left the island and waited for Poisson to find me and carry out whatever the hell it was he wanted to carry out and be done with it. I should've gotten him involved . . . he doesn't deserve this . . ._

"I'm sorry," she murmured, caressing his hair soothingly. Her fingertips brushed over his forehead for a moment and she was relieved to note that his fever had gone down considerably. The agent was still terribly weak, but hopefully the worst had passed.

"What d'you have to be sorry about?" Sands quizzed wearily, moving closer to her. The temperature suddenly seemed to have dropped a few notches since the last time he was awake.

Zebbidy sighed. "Everything. I'm sure you won't care for my apologizes, but I thought I'd do it anyway."

"Didn't you already?" he asked, his voice bleary and distant.

She nodded. "I did. But that was for running off. Now I'm apologizing for everything else."

"Oh," he replied, not bothering to ask what 'everything else' happened to be. He merely turned in towards her and gazed upward through sightless eyes. In the silvery glow of the moonlit room, Zebbidy could see that a thin sheen of sweat had broken out over Sands' face, but other than that he looked all right.

"Feeling any better?" she wanted to know.

Sands made an 'if-y' sort of gesture with his hand and pulled a blanket up over his shoulder and, Zebbidy noticed, around her legs.

"Anything hurting you in particular?" Zebbidy went on.

"My stomach," he admitted, turning over onto his front and closing his eyes. "But that's to be expected, right?"

She smiled slightly. "I imagine so." She felt herself lying down next to him, the bed having become irresistibly comfortable. It was too inviting to contend with, she reasoned, letting her head sink into the pillows beneath her. Beside her, Sands felt himself being taken in sleep's hold once again.

**_Careful_**, the voice warned, jarring him from his haze. **_Remember what happened the last time a woman got too close._**

_She's not getting close_, Sands informed it, hating how unbelievably tired he sounded.

**_Okay, she's not, _**the voice said reasonably. **_But _you_ are._**

**VVV**

"Would you wait a minute? She hasn't said a word to me since she regained consciousness. I think she may be in a state of shock –"

"All the better," the imposing, powerfully built man replied, grinning fiendishly as he ran a finger along the trigger of his gun.

"Could I . . ." Liam faltered, not sure what he wanted to say. He didn't like doing this – Lord knew he didn't _want _to do it – but it was for . . _. For what? The best? I'm supposed to be her partner and _this _is the best I can give her?_

"Rest assured, Agent Fusco, you have done more than your share. You need not overexert yourself," a woman who could only be classified as a string bean assured him, placing a hand on the arm of the burly man. Her dark eyes glittered with an energy Liam was certain he had never seem before.

"I know it's just . . ." He glanced around, looking uncomfortable. "Could I get the little girl out of here first? I don't want her to know."

"Girl? What girl?" the thin woman asked, giving him a strange look.

"The little girl," Liam tried to explain, forgetting that no one aside from Lynné, Sands, Zebbidy, and himself knew of Joséphine's whereabouts. "She's blind, she's Poisson's granddaughter –"

"Poisson's _granddaughter_!?" The man's eyes widened in shock. He even took a step back. The woman, however, remained calm and stationary. Her eyes narrowed maliciously and, slowly, a smile began to form upon her pointed face.

"Oh no, Agent Fusco. I think not. You see, Poisson is offering a healthy sum of money for that child's return. And my fiancé and I _are _considering traveling to Monte Carlo for our honeymoon."

Liam blanched. "You're . . . you're going to give her back to him?"

"I believe that's what I said, yes," she replied.

"But she hates the man!" Liam protested, surprised at how loud his voice had suddenly become. "She doesn't like to talk about him and when she does her hatred is obvious. She won't want to go back there –"

"I don't _care_, Fusco. If there weren't any money involved, I'd leave her at the doorstep of the closest orphanage.

"Now," she began, smoothing back a piece of her stick-straight hair, "where are they?"

**VVV**

_Curse my liking for cliffhangers! I have a whole other scene written up but I decided to leave it off there. Sorry. The next chapter will hopefully be longer, too. This one was just too short for my liking. Then again, in The Da Vinci Code some of the chapters are only a page long. O.o But, hey, I brought back Alaska! I was rereading that scene the other day when it occurred to me that I didn't care for how I ended it all that much. And, thus, that flashback was born. :)_

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**Dawnie-7: **I missed Vincent, what can I say? Although I did _not _miss Tom Cruise -.9 He's everywhere I turn anymore. 9.6 I think he's trying to bump Johnny Depp off of the Favorite Actor's Chair in my mind, I really do. That's not gonna happen, though. u.u lol, I don't trust doctors at all and if you add that to Sands already immense distrust for people plus the fact that he had his eyes removed by a doctor . . . nah, I don't think he'd like them, even as a kid. Guess this kinda proves how smart a child he really was, huh? ;D

**Lynx Ryder: **lol, yeah, her anonymous lover is back. He actually does have a name, but it just happens to be the same as one of Poisson's sons: Vincent. 9.9 I did not plan this, but rather than confuse people I just chose to keep him nameless. :) I'm so glad you enjoyed the scene between Sands and his mother. I was really worried about how it would be received , so that's a relief to hear. Nah, Sands doesn't hate his mom at all – you actually could go as far as saying that he loves her and be right on target. o.o Dunno if you'd get him to admit it, though. And 'breathtaking?' O.O I don't think my writing has ever been called that before. I can't express my thanks, I really can't. I'm not sure if I'd call it my best chapter, but thank you all the same. :)

**morph: **I'm updating as quickly as I can :) New chapters are usually posted on Monday and Friday nights. And, no, Sands pain won't last forever. But he's not gonna get over his nightmares 'til a few things are settled. u.u

**DragonHunter200: **Yeah, Vincent's back. I couldn't resist, cuz despite how much I really don't care for Tom Cruise, I do like his character in _Collateral. _I have such a hard time picturing Sands as a kid! o.o I don't know why, either, but, yeah, it's isn't easy for me. :( I know what you mean about cute guys and fevers. For some reason, that appeals to me. O.o Still haven't gotten my hands on _The Rum Diary _although I was _this _close to nabbing a copy of _Rolling Stone Magazine _last Saturday. My dad dragged me out of the CD store while I was only halfway through with the article, so I didn't get to finish it. XO But thank you for the nice comments on Sands pain. :) Really, I think I have what has to be the worst memory to date, so reading that I wrote sickness well is very reassuring. :D

o


	35. The Price of Betrayal

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Thirty-Five: **The Price of Betrayal

Lots of stuff going on in this chapter. Some of it's insightful, some of it's saddening, some of it's exciting, but hopefully all of it will be entertaining. :) For the first time in like this entire story I actually had things _planned_. They didn't just happen like they normally do. Although . . . I didn't think of the bit with Liam and Lynné until about a month ago . . . Okay, scratch that. This chapter has been _partially _planned in advance, unlike the other chapters which only had vague outlines and punchy lines. :)

* * *

A startled gasp broke through the peaceful silence that filled the tiny suite. He heard it and knew that she was going to try and leave before he realized what had happened. But instead of letting her go, Sands kept his arms locked securely around her waist, refusing to let her go.

**_Why, though? Why don't you want her to leave?_**

_She's warm, _he explained as if talking to a moron. _And in case you haven't noticed, this room's fucking freezing. Besides . . . I'm comfortable._

_**You misinterpreted me. **_**Why _does being like this make you comfortable?_**

_Well . . . most people _are _at ease when they fist wake up. That's why it's so hard to get out of bed in the mor –_

_**You're feeding me boring explanations, Sheldon, and avoiding the actual answers. You know why you're so calm now. We both do. You just won't admit it. And **_**I _won't say it 'til I _hear _you admit it. We both know that, too._**

****No. . . . No, it was all right. He was fine – he didn't need her, nor did he want her.

**_If you don't, then why don't you let her go? She's gonna realize you're awake sooner or later._**

****No she wouldn't, Sands assured himself. As long as Zebbidy thought he was still asleep, then there was nothing wrong with what he was doing. When she awoke, she would probably figure that he was jut having some perverted dream in which _he _was at the Playboy Mansion being waited on by beautiful, busty women who were willing to fulfil his every wish. She would think that, in his dream, he had a hold of a Playboy Bunny and didn't realize that the one he really held was her, Zebbidy. Yes, that would work. It _was _working.

**_Except that she's already awake, and she knows you are, too._**

_What . . ?_

"Sands . . . . ?"

* * *

"Ah, fuck. What're you doing here?"

"Funny. Agent Fusco informed me that you weren't talking."

Lynné shook her head, before shimmying into a dark black T-shirt. "Not true. I just haven't had anything to say. Not to him, anyway."

"Oh?" her stepsister asked, taking a seat on the bed and assuming a casual position. "Why's that?"

Casting a 'what-the-hell-do-you-think-you're-doing?' look in Cat's direction, Lynné gave a unconcerned shrug and donned a black belt with a large silver buckle engraved with two wrenches and the words 'Pipe Fitter.'

"Just haven't had anything interesting to say is all. And you know how I am about that."

She gave a would-be charming smile and sat down next to her stepsister to put on her boots, wincing inwardly at the sharp pain that ran from her knee to her thigh as she tugged on the left shoe.

"So," Lynné began conversationally, "what _are _you doing here?"

"What happened at Poisson's party, Lynné?" Cat demanded sternly.

"Are you gonna answer my question?" her stepsister replied coolly.

"Are you gonna answer _mine_?" she countered, struggling to get a grip on her frustration.

"Why are we talking in questions?"

"Why are – _what_?" Catherine was perplexed, and it showed on her face. Her stepsister never made a bit of sense. _Why _couldn't she just tell her what she wanted to know and be done with it? Because she was Lynné, Cat knew. Because she always had to make things confusing. Watching a person struggling to comprehend what she had told them amused her to no end. _Her sick idea of 'fun,' _Cat snorted. Stealing a glance at her despised stepsibling, she saw the spark of triumph that now shined in Lynné's eyes, the clear enjoyment that lined her smile, the sheer arrogance of it all and Catherine snapped.

"I know about the girl, Lynné."

She received nothing more than a side-glance from the younger woman. Not moved at all by Catherine's statement, Lyn continued to lace up her boot.

"I said, I kno –"

"Heard you the first time, dear," Lynné sighed, sitting up properly.

"Good," Cat replied. "We're at least on the same subject."

"Actually, I'm _still _wondering why you're _here_ . . . but, gee whiz, Cat, I can't say no to you. Whaddaya wanna know?"

"Poisson's granddaughter," Cat stated, regarding her black attire with extreme distaste. "You have her. Why _is_ that, Lynné?"

Her stepsister shrugged, nonchalantly picking an invisible speck of dust from her pants.

"She was stalking me."

"Lynné –"

"She _was_," Lyn protested indignantly. "Fuckin' kid was following me everywhere. She wouldn't leave me alone. Said she had something to tell me. So, I did what anyone else in my position would've done and took her home with me."

Leisurely, she sauntered over to her dresser, retrieved a small handgun, and slid a clip into it. She didn't have to be facing her stepsister to know that Catherine's eyes widened at the sight.

"Where's the girl, Lynné?" Cat asked, her tone faltering ever so slightly as her hated stepsibling turned around, gun still in hand.

"Asleep?" Lyn guessed. "It _does _seem a little past her bedtime, being so late an' all . . ."

"Lynné, I me –"

Her words were cut abruptly when the other woman held up a hand, motioning for silence. Obediently, Cat shut her mouth. As much as she loathed the woman, she knew better than to continue with her tirade. Lynné was not one of those people you disobeyed.

With her head cocked towards the door and her eyes focused on the glossy wooden planks beneath her, Lynné felt her eyebrows slanting inward as a trio of voices trailed into her bedroom. One was young, skittish, and desperately trying to maintain a grip on its senses. Liam. There was another, high, girlish, and alert with determination but lined with confusion and fear of the unknown. Josey. Then, she heard the third and final voice, a low, tenor sounding voice that was putting on an act of kindness, leading the unsuspecting into a false sense of security.

Slowly, she raised her eyes from the floor to meet those of her stepsister. It wasn't hard. Cat wasn't even trying to avoid her gaze. In fact, Lyn noticed, she was staring directly at her, an air of deliberate haughtiness hovering about her, clinging to her like static and ready to shock anyone who dared touch her. Unimpressed, Lynné looked her up and down, mimicking her lofty arrogance perfectly. Better, even.

_Bitch_, Cat thought spitefully.

"Did you bring Harrington with you?" her stepsister asked suddenly, motioning to the door which still stood ajar from when Catherine made her entrance.

"Why?" Cat asked, staring at her questioningly. "What does it matter?"

As the low voice sounded from the living room once more, Lynné's head turned, listening to its muffled words intently. The moment someone else spoke up, she shook her head, muttered a quiet curse – "_Fuck_" – and sprinted out of the room, with a bewildered yet unnoticed Cat following suit.

* * *

"Is that really necessary?" Liam asked glancing at Agent Harrington out of the corner of his eye. The other man looked up from checking his gun for ammunition and met his fellow agent's gaze. Calmly, he placed his gun on the coffee table in front of him, making sure it was still in reach and that Liam could still see it. It was clear that Agent Fusco didn't want the thing in the house.

"Agent Sands can be quite a handful, Fusco. The CIA isn't taking any chances with her."

"So by being precautions you're going to tranquilize her?" Liam demanded, outraged.

"Of course not, Fusco," Harrington replied, shaking his head at the other agent's idiocy. "This isn't the Discovery Channel. Although I can't say I'd _mind _hunting Lynné Sands down . . ." He was lost for a moment, staring off into space with a sleazy grin plastered across his face and running what had to be a thoroughly vulgar image in his head. Liam suddenly had the wild urge to throw a punch at him, but settled for gripping the arms of the reclining chair instead.

"But if worst comes to worst, then I'm prepared to take her out."

"You make it sound like she's going to put up a struggle," Liam challenged.

Harrington's heavy brows arched in skepticism. "You think she's going to go quietly?"

"I . . . I never said that," the other agent said defensively. "I just don't think the drugs are necessary."

Shrugging carelessly, Harrington picked up his gun once again and slid it into his coat pocket.

"You never know."

"Je sais que je ne fais pas," (I know I don't,) a small voice said from the kitchen entrance.

Liam could not contain a gasp as he whirled around in his seat and took in the sight of the fair-haired, light skinned, dark eyed, exquisite child adorned in an adorable nightgown of frosty pink satin.

"Joséphine?"

The little girl rolled her useless eyes. "Certainement." (Of course.) Turning towards Harrington – while maintaining the illusion of sight amazingly, Liam noted, awed – she put her hands on her hips and scrutinized him suspiciously.

"Qui est il?" (Who is he?)

When Harrington looked at him questioningly, Liam knew that was his cue to translate the little girl's words. But with his fellow agent's indication also came a sudden gain that caught Liam as odd. As cultured as he was, Harrington didn't speak French. Liam grinned to himself. While she may not have known it yet, he and Joséphine had a huge advantage. Swallowing the buildup inside his throat, he answered:

"She wants to know your name. You can talk to her in English, though. She understands it."

"But she doesn't speak it?" the other man asked skeptically.

Liam shook his head. "No."

Letting out an annoyed sigh, Harrington muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "Typical French . . . Very well . . ." under his breath and bent down so he could see things eye-to-eye with Joséphine.

"I'm another agent, just like your friend Mr. Fusco, sweetheart," Harrington explained kindly.

Joséphine glared.

"Dont parliez-vous?" (What were you talking about?) she wanted to know. Liam translated her every word.

"Something you wouldn't understand," Harrington informed her promptly.

If possible, Joséphine's scowl deepened, her eyes narrowed until they threatened to close, and her pale brows came so close to touching they seemed to have been sewn together, completing the image of a tiny, two-foot terror.

"C'est que chacun dit!" (That's what everyone says!) she yelled shrilly. "Ils croient toujours que je ne sais rien parce que je suis seulement six, mais je fais!" (They always think I don't know anything because I am only six, but I do!)

"Honey, calm down," Harrington said, trying to put an end to her shouting with a gentle façade. Joséphine knew better.

"Je sais que vous alliez faire du mal à Mademoiselle!" (I know you were going to harm Mademoiselle!) she cried, taking a step back.

"I had no intention –"

"Tranquillisants!" (Tranquilizers!) Joséphine spat the word out as if it had left a horrible taste in her mouth. "Je sais qu'ils sont – le Grand-père les utilise sur quelqu'un qui le traverse. Et vous alliez les utiliser sur Mademoiselle Lynné!" (I know what they are – Grandfather uses them on anyone who crosses him. And you were going to use them on Mademoiselle Lynné!)

"As much as I appreciate your defense, Josey, I think I can take care of myself."

"_Lynné_?" Liam gasped, wide-eyed with shock. His partner ignored him, her eyes fixated on Agent Harrington. Behind her, a panting Cat was barreling down the stairs, her ragged breath and thumping footsteps clashing with the infuriated silence that had filled the room.

"I tried to stop her," Catherine choked out in one breath, leaning against the railing for support.

"Now, Cat, you should know better than to run full-tilt when you're anorexic," Lynné scolded mockingly, her eyes never leaving Harrington. A cold smile slowly spread across her face.

"Hello, Richie."

Harrington gave a short nod of recognition.

"Lynné."

"Long time, no see," she continued casually, descending the remaining steps one by one. "Gosh, I haven't spoken to you in . . . how many years? Three? Four? I know it was on a Sunday . . . but I just can't figure out which one it was . . ." She shook her head in bemusement but met his eyes with a smile a second later.

"Leave the kid out of this, Rich. You two are here for me if Josey's shouting tells me anything, so there's no reason to drag her down with me."

"My God, Lynné, have you actually learned to care about someone other than yourself?" Catherine gasped in sarcastic awe.

"No," Lyn replied bluntly, "I just like to avoid confusion. The less there is, easier my job will be. Get it?"

"Mademoiselle," Joséphine whispered urgently, tugging on Lynné's arm.

"What is it, Josey?" she asked calmly, looking down at her side.

"Sait-elle que je dis?" (Does she know what I'm saying?) The child pointed directly at Cat and stared up at Lynné questioningly. Carelessly, Lyn glanced at her stepsister.

"No."

Joséphine smiled slightly.

"Bien."

"Oh yeah?"

"Oui," she concurred, nodding. "Il ne fait pas non plus." (He doesn't either,) she added with a gesture towards Harrington.

"Oh I see . . ." Lynné murmured. "_Très_ bien . . . You may be on to something there, kid."

"Mademoiselle, ils vont vous faire mal d'une manière ou d'une autre," (Mademoiselle, they are going to hurt you somehow,) Joséphine told her quickly. "Ils ont des médicaments." (They have drugs.)

"Oh they do, do they? How nice. Just like the Company, too."

"What is?" Cat snapped as Lyn continued to gaze at Harrington with almost eerie detachment.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" she teased shrewdly, her sights still focused on the other man.

"_Yes_," Catherine hissed, suddenly right behind her, "I would. But I can wait."

Something small, thin, and cold was suddenly plunged deep into her neck, numbing her senses and dulling her state of mind – but only slightly. Though her vision was slowly failing her, she could make out Harrington talking on a phone and nodding as if assuring someone that he had completed his job. Cat had snatched up her wrists and was now taping them together with harsh, scratchy duct tape. She was whispering promises of pain and torment and revenge in her future, everything she always deserved. But they were of no importance to Lynné. Perhaps it was the tranquilizers, perhaps it was something else, but the sight of her partner grabbing Joséphine, plastering a piece of tape over her mouth, and slinging her over his shoulder with no remorse delayed any struggle Lynné might have considered carrying out.

She gazed at him, her lids heavy, her eyes glazed, and uttered the first words she had said to him since that night at Poisson's mansion.

"Et tu, Fusco?"

Her partner only stared. Joséphine continued to fight him, swinging her arms and kicking her tiny legs with energy that would not have been expected from so small a child. But Liam had a strong hold on her. She wasn't going anywhere. And Liam was fighting a battle of his own, she saw through her clouded eyes. He wanted to tell her something, but his voice wouldn't allow it. His eyes, however, disobeyed.

But the drugs prevented any kind of message from reaching her brain. She knew that she was slowly being carted off by sleep. She didn't even feel it when Harrington lifted her up and slung her over his shoulder. Unconsciousness had a much stronger grip than he did.

**_Then fall, Lynné_**, the voice murmured serenely.

And down she went.

* * *

"Sands?"

She _was _awake, damn that voice for being right. Damn it for falling silent, too, Sands thought bitterly. After thirty-some years of constant gibberish, now was when it chose to finally shut its trap.

_Does that mean I actually _want _its advice? _he wondered incredulously. _Fuck . . . I'm losing it . . ._

But he still had no idea what to do. Should he answer her or remain silent? Humor the woman or keep up the charade? He hadn't even considered the option of lapsing into a fit of some sort. He could blame it on the pain. Destroying the undefeatable image he had mastered wouldn't be a problem . . . Not with Zebbidy. She understood pain. Whether it was physical or mental, she understood. She was accepting of the afflicting agony he had been burdened with. He could fake a panic attack, make his ailments look worse than they really were and get away with it . . . But feigning pain required energy . . . and he was so very tired . . .

She touched the arm he had wrapped around her waist some time during the long night. Her back was to him, pressed up against his own body. He knew, however, that had he been able to see Zebbidy's face, it would have been wearing an expression of bewildered concern.

"Are you okay?" she asked softly, her hand resting lightly against his own.

"Yeah," he muttered, sounding weary but relaxed. Meanwhile his insides were spinning, thankfully not from an oncoming attack of nausea. Vaguely he wondered why on Earth she wasn't as uncomfortable about the situation as he was.

**_But you're _not _uncomfortable, Sheldon. _**The voice was back and ready to quote him at any given moment. **_You're _not_. Remember?_**

_Yeah, yeah . . . That's the last time I let myself get delirious. Whenever that happens, I don't what the fuck's going on and suddenly I'm admitting shit to _you

_**Think of it as . . . "bonding" . . . if you like, **_the voice offered kindly.

"I've been thinking," Zebbidy began, unknowingly cutting Sands' conversation with the voice short.

"Mmm," he replied bemusedly. "About what?"

"About . . . the situation we're in." His body didn't stiffen in the least. He remained absolutely calm, his muscles perfectly relaxed. But Zebbidy didn't have to be a mind reader to feel his mind tensing.

"Or I should say, the situation _you're _in," she tried to explain. "With . . . your eyes."

Oddly enough, she felt him calm very slightly. His sight was a hazy subject to discuss – she was probably an idiot for even thinking of brining it up – but Zebbidy could not help but feel that the agent had been worried about something else. And then it hit her. The weakness, the yearning, the exhaustion, the bed, the hand on her slim waist . . . How could she have missed it?

_He's not used to waking up like this with me or with any woman for that matter. He's not used to it . . . Oh my gods . . ._

There were no doubts in her mind that Sands had gone to bed with many women, but the question still remained: How many times had he actually slept with one of them and then woken with them the following morning? She doubted it had ever happened.

Sands was not a man who was comfortable with love and affection. Such things were too frivolous for him. They weren't what he needed to get the job done, so he had never bothered with them. _Oh, he's a charmer, though. I'll give him that, _Zebbidy agreed silently. That was another thing that puzzled her. Sands never acted like he was incredibly uneasy with being around other people. Perhaps that was because he wasn't, Zebbidy imagined. He didn't mind getting women into bed as long as there weren't any lovey-dovey moments involved.

The odd thing was, she herself was completely fine with the whole situation. But she had never felt awkward about showing affection. After what she had seen last night . . . that small piece from Sands' youth . . . if his father really had thrown him out in the cold he said he did . . . then she didn't blame him for being callous.

"What about them?" he was asking when she finally tuned back in.

"Why do you think –"

"I can't see anymore?" Sands finished sardonically. "Beats the shit outta me," he answered flatly. "I've already asked myself that question, Zeb. Been there, done that . . . after the first million times it gets kinda old."

"I'm sure it does," Zebbidy returned evenly. "But I've been thinking –"

"– So you said –"

"– and I think I may know what brought it on. You said it was when you saw Rosa Hernandez that you lost your sight. Do you . . . know her? From anywhere?"

Sands sighed wearily, not wanting to answer her. True, she had taken him in when he was injured, she had been there for him when he was in pain, she was accepting, caring, possibly deeply devoted to helping others . . . but he could be wrong. She could be playing him false, simply making him well again so he would be in good condition when she handed him over to Poisson who turned out to be her third cousin's grandfather's sister-in-law's father. Or something along those lines.

_But how could telling her about Ajedrez be bad? How's she gonna use that against me?_

_**You never know.**_

****"How does that tell you anything?" he wanted to know before he started spilling his guts.

"Well," Zebbidy began patiently, "sometimes we see things that have such an impact on our minds that we black out – temporarily," she added quickly. "Usually, it only lasts for a few hours – the person thinks they're asleep most of the time. But sometimes certain images are so strong they blind us – once again, temporarily."

"And now long is 'temporarily?" Sands asked with a feeble bite to his tone.

"Until one confesses," she answered quietly.

"Confess to what?" he snapped angrily, wincing at the pain in his chest. "I already told you it was Hernandez –"

"I know," Zebbidy said softly, laying her hand over his own in an effort to calm him. He would never admit – not even to himself – that it had worked.

"But what I meant was . . ." Zebbidy paused, searching for the proper phrasing. "If there's anything on your mind . . . just . . . anything you'd like to get out but can't . . . you can tell me."

He sighed. Zebbidy hurried on.

"That may not seem like a lot to go by, but I'm all you've got at the moment. And it might work. I'd just like to know if it would. I'm sure you would, too."

When he made no answer, she carefully curled her fingers around his, hoping for some kind of reaction. Even an angry one would do.

"Sands?"

But the agent remained silent. The only response she got out of him was a gentle pressure around her hand. And that was enough for her. Not once did Sands move from where he lay. He didn't even make an effort to. But, Sands noted coyly, neither did Zebbidy.

* * *

__

_Okay, next chapter I am definitely going to take my time on. It's not that I have anything going on, but I'd rather stretch my deadlines a little so I could perfect it instead of hurrying up and whipping something together in order to have it up by Monday. Why is that? Well, in the next chapter a lot is going to happen. Not necessarily action-wise, but confessions will be made, truth will come out . . . in short, a lotta stuff's gonna happen. I'd just like to make sure it's everything it can be – ie, make sure I'm happy with it before I go and update – and that will probably take until next Friday. Also, I would've had this chapter up last night, but FanFiction was being a royal pain in the arse and not letting me post. Plus they screwed up the chapters of this story (notice how it begins with chapter one but doesn't continue with chapter two? Yeah, that's what I'm talking about). _

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses**

**Lynx Ryder: **Hmm . . . falling? I don't know. Maybe. ;) All they have to do is create some mutual agreement to care for one another and then . . . well, maybe. Really, I still have yet to find a way to break the ice that's between them – albeit, it _is _melting. Lol, I know I had to laugh after I did debating over Tom Cruise and Johnny Depp. In the end, the answer was just so obvious it was funny! Mr. Depp is way better than Cruise – he actually creates individual characters (something Cruise definitely does not do) and sometimes he even interesting, unmentioned things about them! Example: Sands was reading a biography of Judy Garland in OUaTiM and I read a quote of Depp's saying that he didn't know why, but he always thought that Sands would have some kind of 'sideline obsession with Broadway.' Which is good, cuz my Sands is a fan of showtunes and musicals – except _Chicago _for some reason.

Sands: Because you and your idiot friends play the soundtrack constantly.

Sidney: Oh, you don't know what you're talking about. Go back to bed. (hums the tune to 'All That Jazz')

**Dawnie-7: **Thanks! Like I said, reading over that scene again, I realized that I just wasn't satisfied with the way it ended the first time. So it's good to hear you liked this ending. And it's all right, you're supposed to be lost. :) This is one of those instances where confusion is fun . . . . For me, anyway. :D

**morph: **Ooo, you mentioned the play/movie comparison! I was hoping somebody would. Thank you! And from what I've read about the human mind – damn those psychology classes, right? – everyone has at least one voice in their head. It's called many things: your conscience, your evil side, MPD, schizophrenia . . . but the point is, everyone has one. Some just aren't as talkative as others. Head-voices on the other hand, are a different story. I've come to classify them as extremely well known characters that a person has come to learn about and like. It's sort of like . . . once you get to know a character so well – whether it be from a book, movie, TV show, history, played for an acting gig, or your own imagination – you start to use their mannerisms and become adapted to their quirks and stuff. Sometimes you'll just think or say something and it's like 'That's weird . . . it's like something Captain Jack would say . . .' So there ya go, head-voice 101 for everbody's enjoyment! :)

**DragonHunter200: **lol, yep, I brought back Alaska. I just wasn't happy with how it ended in Home. Glad to hear that this time around it was still as enjoyable. :) I'm sure Sands was a cute kid – I mean, he has to have been; it's gotta be a law or something. Maybe if I manage to get my hands on some photos of Mr. Depp when he was younger I'd be able to create a better picture of kid-Sands in my mind, but until that time it's kinda blurry. And yeah, cute guys with fevers! I am _still _not sure about that one. Like you said, it's probably wrong to find something painful like that very appealing but I can't help myself! Somebody give me an answer, damn it!

**fanfiction fanatic: **I will! And thank you!

o


	36. Confessions of a Dangerous Mind

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Thirty-Six: **Confessions of a Dangerous Mind

Has anybody ever seen this movie? (gestures to the chapter title) It's pretty good. It's based on a 'true story' about the man who used to be the host of this game show called _The Gong Show _that was on in the 70s. Supposedly, the guy was an CIA agent and being a game show host was just a cover up. The government, of course, denies all of this but that is what they do best, right? I've always thought that Johnny Depp would have fit the role of Chuck Barris (ie, the undercover CIA agent/TV host) wonderfully, even though the part went to Sam Rockwell. Funny thing, though. I recently read somewhere that Mr. Depp originally was the director's and writer's first candidate for the role. And now I am thinking of taking back my claim of not being psychic. Ah well. In any case, in this chapter, confessions will be made, and believe you me, they will most definitely be from a dangerous mind. ;)

* * *

Liam sighed, his head in his hands. He had sold Lynné out and he had sold her out to the worst kind of people. The CIA was not pleased when they heard of how Poisson's party had gone awry, and they were absolutely livid when they learned that their inside woman and one of their top agents was missing. And mobsters were _not _– make that _never _– the nicest people to deal with.

But he had sold his partner out. To both parities.

Cat and her fiancé Harrington had turned into rouge agents, turning their backs on the CIA and joining the Poisson Mafia in order to bring Lynné and Sands down once and for all. And for money and power, of course. Liam was in charge of handing Lynné and her brother over to them.

_Set 'em up and watch 'em fall, right? _he asked himself dryly.

A second harsh sigh passing through his lips, Liam rubbed his temple in exhaustion.

"Don't worry, Monsieur Fusco," Édouard Poisson assured him, gazing across his desk at the sorry form of a man in remorse. "Mademoiselle Sands is in no danger as long as she cooperates."

"Then she's as good as dead," Liam replied dully.

Without another word, he rose and strode silently out of the room.

* * *

Sands pulled her even closer towards him, feeling the warmth of her body seeping into his own frigid form.

"Are you okay?" Zebbidy asked quietly, her hand still embracing his. Deftly, she turned around in the arm encircling her hips so she could face him. Instantly she was taken aback at the sight that met her eyes. Sands' once hansom face was sickly pale and etched with pain. Ever inch of his body was nearly white save for his cheeks, which were flushed pink. His dark hair hung, lank and damp, around his face, plastered to the back of his neck. Sweat on his forehead glistened in the morning sunlight that escaped through the gap in the curtains. These were the after effects of the torture he had been forced to endure.

"Oh my gods . . ." she breathed, her green eyes large. "You poor dear . . ."

Sands gave her a questioning look. "What? What is it?" He tried to sit up.

At once Zebbidy's hands flew to push him back down, her hands pressing gently on his shoulders.

"No," she ordered, hushing his confused protests. "Lay down."

"But –"

"Shh . . . you're still very sick," she told him.

"What?" Sands asked, his voice hollow with disbelief.

"Just rest for a while," Zebbidy said quietly. "You'll be all right. And you don't have to tell me anything now if you're too tired. Are you in any pain?"

He nodded, swallowing the blockage in this throat. "A little, yeah . . ."

"Okay," she whispered, smoothing back a piece of his sweat-laden hair. "Let me get you something for that."

Instantly, there was paranoia.

"Not a needle," Sands insisted, his voice cracking as it rose in panic. "Just . . . not a . . ." He closed his eyes, too drained to continue. "No . . ."

Zebbidy shook her head vigorously, so surprised at his sudden plea that she forgot that the agent could not see the action.

"I never use needles," she assured him sternly. "_Never_."

* * *

"Monsieur Poisson," Catherine sang as she sailed through the double oak doors of his office.

Normally Édouard Poisson would not have permitted his own sons to enter his sanctuary uninvited, let alone a complete stranger, and especially Mademoiselle Johnson who worked for one of his enemies: the Central Intelligence Agency of America. The woman could turn him in at any given moment, an action that would most certainly result in her death. So far, however, she had made a wise decision not to turn him in. He could say that she could be (nearly) trusted, she had proven her worth after all. She had given him Lynné Sands! And returned his little granddaughter Joséphine to him and he hadn't even commanded that. Such offerings did not, however, give her the right to barge into his private domains.

"Mademoiselle Johnson, I believe I gave you specific instructions not to interrupt me when I am in my study," Édouard said coolly, not looking up from his desk.

Cat stopped halfway through the room. Forcing a weak smile she apologized, "Of course, monsieur. I'm terribly sorry. But I thought you ought to know, we've found your car."

Édouard's head snapped up, his steely silver eyes slanted in a menacing glare.

"Mademoiselle Johnson, I have more cars than you will ever see." His eyebrows arched pointedly. "What makes you think I would care if one went missing?"

Catherine flashed him a smirk of triumph, positively giddy at the thought of knowing something he didn't. It was, she noticed, the same smirk she had adorned when she had given her stepfather the delightful news that both of his children were alive and, she added, that she knew their exact whereabouts.

"It's the car Zebbidy Samhain was last seen driving." Her grin broadened when she saw the intrigued look in Poisson's eyes. "And," she added, practically drowning in her own mirth, "it is reported that that a man was accompanying her." Her piercing voice lowered seriously. "A man in black."

* * *

"Here," Zebbidy said quietly, placing a warm mug securely in the agent's hand. "Lemon verbena – tea. It acts as a mild sedative, although it's distinctly lemon flavored so it might be a bit –"

"_Shit_," Sands swore, sputtering at the liquid's tart taste and Zebbidy couldn't help but smile.

"I warned you," she chided still wearing her soft smile. "But you should drink that anyway. Even if you don't like it, it'll make you feel better. And the taste will keep your mind busy while I'm checking your stitches. The one in your arm may be infected."

"Whoop-dee-doo, this just keeps getting better and better, doesn't it?" the agent shot sarcastically, but Zebbidy could hear the wearied pain behind his sharp words. Sure enough, when she removed the line of catgut from his arm, Sands could not suppress the tremor of anguish that rippled through his limbs. Taking Zebbidy's advice, he slowly raised the tea to his lips.

His stomach still howled with unending hunger, clawing at him and insisting that he needed food or else he would surely suffer from malnutrition. Sands ignored its pleas and warnings. He didn't want to risk another episode like the one he had had to endure the morning after Poisson's shindig. Accepting or not, he hated the thought of Zebbidy seeing him in that weakened state. He _hated _it.

**_And yet, you don't want her to leave your side. Not for a moment._**

_I didn't say that, _he insisted though by the sound of his supine tone, he knew he was fighting a losing battle. The voice, for once, said nothing. It didn't need to present the truth to him. Like it had said earlier, he knew it, as did it, but the voice wasn't going to admit to anything until he did.

_Christ, I'll be old and senile to know what's going on, and you'll be too hopped up on meds to be heard by the time that happens._

If the voice had anything to say at all, it was drowned out as Zebbidy's relieved sigh filled his ears and he heard the springs of the overly comfortable bed creak, indicating that she had leaned back, perhaps surveying her handiwork.

"You don't have an infection," she pronounced, unable to sustain the happiness that mingled with her immense satisfaction towards a job well done.

"Great," Sands cheered flatly, staying perfectly still as she stitched him back together.

"I am going to put this on it, though," she informed him, lifting a small jar full of what looked to be an odd sort of paste. "It's an herbal remedy," Zebbidy explained. "Lammint, eucalyptus, gardenia . . ." She trailed off, lost in the stitches she had made, ones that surrounded the wound on Sands' arm. A bright pink ring ran around its edge. But it did not pus or swell, she reminded herself. A good sign.

"You're not one of those . . . old-fashioned, hippie/stoner people who believes that everything can be cured with a plant, are you?" Sands inquired meekly.

"In a sense, I suppose I am," she told him truthfully, not wanting to risk a lie. His trust in her was only beginning. "But I know when to call on doctors for help and when it isn't necessary."

Sands nodded slowly, considering this, and asked her the time. Zebbidy glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand.

"Just past six," she answered, lifting a hand to feel his forehead. It was still warm, but the agent was not burning from within like the night before.

"Why . . . are you still . . . awake?" Sands wondered, not having the strength to hide his exhaustion.

"Because I worry," Zebbidy replied as if it were obvious, "and I care."

Sands shook his head against the pillows.

"You shouldn't."

"Why not?" she asked, a defiant note in her silky voice. "I'm a grown woman; I can do as I wish, I can speak my mind, and I can care for whoever I want to."

Sands waved a hand in a 'it's-your-funeral' kind of manner, but said, "You shouldn't stay awake at least."

Zebbidy's nose twitched in curiosity. The words were lazy – bored, even . . . but was that actual _concern_ for her well being he was expressing?

"What happens if I _do _get an infection and you're to disoriented from lack of sleep to see straight, and wind up sticking pot in my tea instead of the usual stuff?"

No. Of course not.

Shaking her head, Zebbidy replied, "That's a possibility, yes . . . except I don't have any pot on me. Not at the moment."

A rough sigh escaped Sands' mouth, letting her know that he was sick and tired – literally and metaphorically – of tossing retorts back and forth. _So much for being straight with him._

"Get into bed, Zeb," he commanded with a roll of his blank eyes.

Cautiously, wondering if it was a trap of some sort, Zebbidy lifted the blankets and slid underneath them. In an instant, the agent had turned to face her, recreating the scene they had both woken up to that night when they had both consumed a decent amount of wine. Only this time, Zebbidy realized, neither had their arms around each other.

"Tell me," she began softly, listening to his relaxed breathing. "I don't care if you never tell me anything else, but . . . what's your name? Full, birth, given, Christian – whatever you want to call it . . . what is it?"

Sands hesitated. Should he tell her? It couldn't hurt, he measured after thinking it through. How much harm could come from telling her his real name? Not counting predictable ridicule, of course. He didn't think it would be the end of the world if he let her in on one single shred of truth about himself. Besides, if he told her he preferred 'Sands' to his other titles, Zebbidy would obey him.

"Sands?"

"Sheldon," he interrupted heavily. "Sheldon Jeffery Sands."

He waited in dreaded apprehension for her to make a response. He waited for her to stop lying there, staring at him as she undoubtedly was, and start making some kind of remark. She was stunned, a little put off, perhaps. And she wasn't going to believe him. She was going to scoff. Or smirk knowingly. Or get pissed off and demand that he stop avoiding the subject with stupid jokes. Or worse, she would laugh, just as Ajedrez had done. Heaving a mental sigh, he waited for Zebbidy to answer him. He waited for her to laugh.

Except she did no such thing. Sands heard the sound of sheets rustling, and the next thing he knew, Zebbidy had leaned in and given him a quick, yet affectionate kiss on the tip of his nose.

"I like it," she declared simply. "It fits you."

"Really?" he asked, puzzled and more than slightly taken aback. Zebbidy's answer was unlike any he had ever received. It certainly hadn't passed through _his _mind when he was ticking off each possible response.

"Mmmhmm," Zebbidy murmured sleepily, halfway to dreamland already. "It isn't predictable; completely unexpected." She yawned, her head pillowed against his uninjured shoulder. "Like you."

Even though he was still a little dazed from her odd reaction to hearing his true name, Sands felt the corners of his mouth twitching into a cool grin. Slowly, he slid his arm around her waist, mirroring the first time they had woken up together perfectly and completing the picture at last.

* * *

Like seeing the deadly teeth of a shark just before it struck, Sands watched in unfathomable terror as the drill came closer, it's blades gyrating violently. The light from the halogen bulb above him reflected off of the whirling instrument, making its twisted edge shine and gleam down at him. It winked menacingly. Sands almost expected the _Jaws _theme song to start playing.

At once his heart was racing. Beads of perspiration trickled down his face and into his eyes, burning them horribly. He wanted to shut his eyes . . . the desire was strong, beyond tempting . . . but he refused. If he closed his eyes, he couldn't see what was going on. He would only be able to hear, smell, and feel the things around him. He couldn't rely on those senses alone.

The drill inched closer, climactic tension mounting with every second.

But he would have to if he wanted to make it out alive. He knew what was going to happen – how many times had he gone through this? – and he knew there was nothing he could do to stop it. He only wished that he didn't have to relive it again . . . and again . . . and again . . .

"You don't have to," someone whispered desperately. "Not this time."

Sands' head snapped to the left so quickly he heard his bones crack. Ignoring the pain brought on by whiplash, he stared, eyes wide with fear and confusion, at who had spoken. The drugs he had been injected with made everything difficult to make out, but he would recognize that hair and those eyes anywhere.

Half bathed in shadow with only her vibrant green eyes clearly visible, Zebbidy Samhain stood at his side, fingering the straps that bound his wrists as Dr. Guevera's drill came even closer to its target. One glance at the nightmarish machine was enough to turn back to Zebbidy.

_**Forget asking about what the hell she's doing here – she said you don't have to do this!**_

Sands nodded to himself as he gazed up at her.

"What?"

"Listen!" Zebbidy hissed urgently. "You can stop this, you can stop all of it – just tell me what's going on."

He gave her a bewildered stare.

"Can't you tell –"

"Yes," she replied, worry prominent in her voice, "but what _caused_ it? All of this? I don't know that. If you only tell me, then I can end it all."

Now more confused than ever, Sands felt his eyes trailing from her face to his bonds. Zebbidy's hand was still resting on them. He looked back up at her, sending a mental plea with his eyes: _Unstrap me_. If Zebbidy received a message of any kind, she didn't show it.

"Who are they?" she asked in a hushed voice. "Who's the man in the bandages? The man with the drill? Who is _she_?"

They both looked to Ajedrez sitting atop the table in the corner of the bare, dismally-lit room. She seemed not to notice Zebbidy as she watched him, her maliciously seductive smile in place as it always was whenever he dreamed of her.

The drill buzzed in the distance, but its threatening sound had been diluted by the time it reached Sands' ears. Now, it was nothing more than a dull hum. With his attention devoted to Ajedrez, everything seemed more muffled and not nearly as important as before.

**_Asshole! She's doing it again! You don't love her anymore, now get over it!! If I recall correctly, Miss Samhain said this could be stopped. So would it _kill _you to tear your eyes _away _from That Bitch before _she _tears them _out**

"Tell me what happened," Zebbidy was whispering when he finally tuned back in. All around him everything rolling sharply into focus, stunning him momentarily as millions of sounds hit him with full force. Zebbidy was suddenly louder – had she been trying to drag information out of him the entire time? – the drill was buzzing again, Ajedrez was laughing wickedly, and Barillo now towered directly over him, making sure that his crudely mummified face was burned in Sands' memory along with a few choice words.

"Fortunately for you, you have only . . . _seen _. . . too much."

Sands looked at the drill as it loomed mere inches above him. He forced his head in the other direction just in time to see Zebbidy grasp his hand, pressing it tightly to her heart. She bit her lip, emotion welling in her eyes, threatening to overflow.

"Sands," she murmured softly, her voice close to breaking, "_please . . ._"

**_Tell her, _**the voice urged desperately. **_Tell her!_**

The voice was right. Zebbidy was right. This was the only chance he had, and Sands knew that he would have to take it. _Watch your step while going off on a limb. I can't afford to fall_. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter one single word the drill at last completed its dilatory journey, hitting its target dead on. The tool of horror was gone. Barillo disappeared, as did Guevera. And as Zebbidy vanished from sight, Sands found himself surrounded by darkness. Her pleading eyes were the last things he saw.

* * *

Broken, haggard panting broke through the quiet morning like a gunshot. Instantly, pain erupted in Sands' chest and side but everything ailment that clung to him had been forgotten in the moment of terror. Breathing hard, he looked around in all directions, but everything was the same: Black, blacker than night, darker than death, and just as impenetrable. Sands had entered reality in the same condition he had left the dream: Shaking, gasping, feverishly sweaty, and terrified. It was so similar to what had happened mere seconds ago . . . how could he be certain he was awake?

Sands shook his head vigorously, commanding his overactive imagination to stop before it was carried off by its own creativity.

His head fell into his hands like a heavy weight being lifted off his shoulders, but no relief came with the action. He only felt anger, fear, confusion, and beneath all of that grief. He was grieving and he couldn't believe it. He never grieved, not for anyone or anything.

Distractedly, he wiped the sweat from his brow.

What had brought this on? Rosa had been the real cause of it, yes, but had he done anything to _deserve _being thrown into darkness again? For a moment Sands sorted through his memory, trying to dig up anything that could provide an answer to his urgent questions. Nothing. He had done his job. There weren't any schemes this time, no money was involved, love had been pushed aside along with trust . . . Poisson had known about them, that was true, but they had known before things got out of hand, and the good thing was that Poisson _didn't _know about that. The only people who had died at his hands had deserved it.

'_Thou shalt not kill' my ass,_ Sands snorted with disdain. _If someone's trying to blow me away, I'm gonna do what I can to defend myself. If that involves killing them, fine. Bite me, you all knowing deities, you too, karma._

_Fuck! _he swore loudly. _Why do I have to do this again!?_

_**History **_**does _tend to repeat itself, kiddo, _**the voice murmured thoughtfully.

_Yeah_, he agreed grudgingly. _But how do you reverse the effect?_

_**Zeb seemed to have a good idea,**_ it reminded him, **_but then, you're afraid of what the consequences of trusting her might be –_**

_What??_

_**You heard me. Personally, I can't say I blame you after what That Bitch did to you, but there is – I repeat – there is **_**nothing _wrong with telling Zebbidy about her._**

_And you're the one who kept insisting I was getting too close. Now you're telling be to 'pour my heart out,' so to speak, when neither of us know a damn thing about her._

_**You have **_**everything _on her. The CIA has her _profile_ – _YOU _have her profile._**

_It could be faked._

_**Doubt it. The Company actually worked to dig up info on this chick. If I recall correctly, **_**you _were the only one who bothered to find out about Ajedrez._**

Sands was quiet as he cast a glance in what he assumed to be Zebbidy's direction. She was still asleep; her breathing told him that. Closing his eyes, he let out a heavy sigh, thinking that he was going to regret his next move but knowing that he wasn't.

_Anything on my mind, huh? This shit better work, that's all I can say._

The voice was silent. Sands knew he was in this alone. Slowly, he reached out and placed a light hand on Zebbidy's shoulder.

"Wake up, chére," he murmured, shaking her arm carefully.

He heard her tired yawn but detected a lazy smile in her voice when she asked him what he wanted.

"You wanted to talk? Then let's get this shit over with. I've had enough of being blind, so it's time for a change and I'm ready for it, only question is, are you willing to participate?"

The shuffling of sheets told him that she had sat up, more than likely with a sincerely worried expression on her face. Sands shook his head. No time for concern; he needed out of the hole he had fallen into, and Zebbidy was the one with the ladder.

"Of course," Zebbidy breathed, letting her bewilderment show. "Did you wanna start or –"

"How 'bout we play a little game of question and answer, Zeb?" Sands proposed dryly. "I don't normally give people what they want unless I'm getting something in return. I'm sure you understand this. You ask a question, I answer, then I get a turn, and you answer."

He pictured a nod.

"Okay."

"Good," Sands agreed. Laying back down he raised a hand and waved it carelessly. "Fire away."

Zebbidy was quiet while she sat there, her legs folded underneath her, her eyebrows narrowed in thought. She needed to approach him carefully. After all, he hadn't exactly come out and said that he had been blind before. She couldn't start with that question. She _wanted _to; it was the first one that came to mind, but Zebbidy knew that asking such a thing would only lead to suspicion. Yes, she decided, she needed to be very cautious and chose her questions wisely.

"Have you ever been this badly injured before?"

Sands nodded his head gingerly against the pillow.

"Worse, actually. Last time I was in this country, I was shot seven times. Most of 'em just grazed me, though, so the wounds weren't as bad. My turn. Why didn't the CIA tell me about those little seizures you tend to lapse into every so often?"

"I didn't feel the need to tell your agency about them," Zebbidy replied loftily. "They'd only put me on medication and, believe me, that wouldn't stop them in the least. Next question: When _were _you hurt like this?" she asked, touching his chest gently.

Sands sighed, his eyes closed, hiding the glazed look his irises held.

"Nearly a year ago," he answered finally. His voice was so low Zebbidy could barely make out what he was saying, yet she heard the bitter spite within in no matter how soft his words were.

"Where does a name like 'Samhain' come from, anyway?" Sands asked now.

"It can be either the last day of October or the first day of November," she informed him. "It's a day of celebration for pagans; also called November Eve, Hallowe'en, Feast of Souls, and Feast of the Dead. It marks the beginning of winter and a new year for ancient Celts."

"Where were you the last time you were hurt like this?" she pressed onward, taking up right where she had left off, her nose going haywire the entire time.

"Mexico. How do you know so much about herbs?"

"My mother was very big on herbal remedies." Zebbidy shrugged. "She just passed her knowledge onto me before she died. What were you doing down in Mexico?"

"Trying to bring down a drug cartel, get a president killed, start a revolution, and help my sister flee the country. And working my ass off, I might add. Now," he continued conversationally, "how old are you, really?"

"Thirty-four."

Sands smirked. "I knew it."

Zebbidy fought back a scowl but didn't hold back an eye-roll. "Where were you injured when you were in Mexico?"

"Shot in the arm, the legs, the side . . ." the agent tallied off, sounding bored.

"And?" Zebbidy prodded.

"And what?"

"You didn't sound like you were finished," she replied idly.

"That's because I _wasn't_," he sneered angrily. "While I was in El Meh-hee-co, I was virtually running the country with my cell phone. I rounded all the necessary people together using blackmail, threats, bribes, the usual . . . I set them up, and was eagerly anticipating the date when I would get to watch them fall, which just so happened to be November the second, the Day of the Dead."

He trailed off and the room was once again filled with silence. Zebbidy swallowed hard.

"And then . . ." Sands sighed at the memory. "Everything backfired. That whole day was just . . . downhill." He rubbed his eyes tiredly then jerked his hand back when memories suddenly washed over him like a tidal wave of misery. "Apparently, the Barillo cartel knew about me and my operations all along. They caught up with me, nabbed me, had some . . . fun . . . and then they let me go. I didn't let them get away with it, though, rest assured. I'm sure I pissed Barillo off just a bit when I killed one of his more important people."

"What did you mean when you said 'fun?'" Zebbidy asked quietly. Sands seemed to have forgotten their agreement of a question for a question, because he answered her . . . eventually.

Slowly, he eased himself into a sitting position. Then, using each second to his will, he leaned towards her. With incredible accuracy, he breathed into her ear: "They . . . took my . . . eyes."

Zebbidy leaned back onto her elbows. She couldn't believe it. She could not believe it. She wouldn't have if it hadn't been for her visions. They were all she had to hold onto as proof of what had happened to the agent. No one else would have believed him, Zebbidy knew now. She wasn't certain if she would have, but . . . she had seen him. She had seen him without his eyes . . . and she believed him.

A shaky hand flew to her mouth as a shuddering sigh escaped her. She closed her eyes. Her teeth became buried deep within her lower lip.

"How?" she asked wondering why on Earth such a horrible question had to be voiced, wondering what evil entity had possessed and forced her to ask him such a thing, wondering why she hadn't kept her mouth shut. But she hadn't remained silent. She had spoken, she had asked her question, and now she was awaiting an answer she was afraid to receive.

"How?" Sands repeated blandly. He snorted in disgust that was not meant for her. "They strapped me to a table, injected me with Christ only knows what, took this electronic cork screw . . . and ripped 'em out." He sighed, laying back down once more. "They ripped 'em right out . . ."

As the words entered her ears Zebbidy's eyes grew wide. And she saw it. She saw it all. There was Sands being held down on a metal table like the Frankenstein monster. A man with a face swathed in bloody bandages stood in the corner examining what was left of his mutilated face. There were several men standing near by, each with bulging muscles and three or more guns. She saw a beautiful woman sitting on the edge of a second table, her legs swinging lazily while she twirled a gun in her hand and flashed a smile in Sands' direction.

Then, a new face stepped out of the darkness. In his hand he held the source of Sands' nightmares, the evil device Zebbidy knew must have been the thing that had haunted him all this time. The twisted, silver instrument instantly sprung to life, whirling and winding and spinning around and around in one endless fashion. Its handler loomed menacingly over Sands – towered over him, bearing his terrible, monstrous torture device and then . . .

Zebbidy shut her eyes, but the screams still filled her ears. It was a sound that would stay with her for as long as she lived. They were cries of pain, or agony, or unimaginable torment, and they would stay with her until her time had run out.

She could remember yelling, she could remember shouting, she could remember clenching her fists so tightly that the palms of her hands bore marks from her fingernails for weeks. When she was a child she would sometimes scream and turn red with rage, but she never cried. Only for her parents would she cry. Only for someone she was so deeply devoted to . . . only for someone she felt incomprehensible emotion for . . . only for them would she allow the tears to be shed.

And now, as she sat on the bed with her legs tucked neatly underneath her, did she let the hot, heavy droplets of water part company with her eyes. Her voice gave no indication that she was crying, not even the smallest hint.

She turned to Sands, the tears still falling freely down her face and still she did nothing to stop them.

"I know this won't matter to you . . ." Zebbidy whispered, her voice still smooth and steady as always. Without warning, she reached up. Cupping his face in her hands, she planted two soft, gentle kisses over each of his eyes. Only then did Sands realize she was crying.

* * *

_Curse you, Fanfiction! They wouldn't let me post last night! -.-;; But anyway, back to the point. Was it worth the wait? And did Sands seem a little off in that last scene? Honestly, that was the hardest part to write. Took me two days just to do that last bit. Oy vey . . . 9.6; And I've come to a decision. I realized that the next few chapters are going to be long ones. Too long to complete in three days. So, I'm gonna post new chapters of SGiYE on Friday nights_ but_ I'm going to make sure I have new chapters for_ Autobiography of a Troubled Soul _up every Monday. How's that, everybody?_

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses**

**Dawnie-7: **Unfortunately, Liam most definitely sold Lyn out.But I resolve my statement of 'all will work out in the end' if that's any consolation. :) lol, those names fit them perfectly. It's what they are, after all. Especially Cat. Blah, I'll be glad to get rid of her if I ever do e.e;;;

**fanfiction fanatic: **lol, I don't know how that saying goes either. Don't think I've ever gotten anything like that right, actually. But I usually never have a chance to check and edit my stories for grammar and spelling and stuff like that. It's really annoying to go back and suddenly see that I've all this (probably unnoticeable but really aggravating) mistakes. XP

**Lynx Ryder: **Yeah, Cat isn't incredibly dense. She isn't _smart _but she isn't stupid either. I mean, she took Lynné down, didn't she? Ooo, and you liked the description! I was hoping somebody would mention that. :D Discovery Channel . . . I have no idea where that came from, but I liked it. Glad to hear you got a kick out of it, too. Yes, Josey can definitely be scary when she wants to be, which, in a way, I think is a good thing cuz at least nobody underestimates her anymore just because she's a six-year-old blind girl. Although fooling the enemy may be a good thing because then they aren't expecting her to get as angry as she does. Working romance into Sands is not an easy task – I don't know how you did it! o.o – but I'm hoping that Zeb can get him to warm up to her a bit. And, yes, he's definitely gonna tell her about his 'former lady love.' In the next installment, actually. :) I totally agree as far as Mr. Depp is concerned. All of his characters – they each seem to have a story to them, don't they? Whether it's mentioned in the movie or not, they all seem like they have one. I know I love hearing his comments about characterization. It's so interesting and for someone like me who's main purpose in acting, writing, or even watching a movie is character, it's really cool to know that he does his homework while reseaching and developing his roles. Just one of the reasons I admire him, I suppose. Probably _The _reason, actually. And, no, unfortunately Sands does not enjoy _Chicago _in the least. :( I think at some point he did, but after my sister, her friends, my friends, Lyn, and I all played it constantly (and contiue to just not as much) he kinda lost his liking for it. Speaking of _Chicago_, I've always thought that the song Funny Honey sounded a lot like Liam and Lyn's relationship. Especially now. Y'know, him ratting her out and everything. Just wanted to mention that cuz I'd like to fit it in the story somewhere but I don't know where I would. Zeb's the one who thinks in song, not Lyn.

**morph: **No, things are definitely not looking up for Lynné at the moment. But she gets to have some fun dialouge and mess with people's heads in the next chaper, so that should be fun. For the readers, anyway. u.u

**DragonHunter200: **Thank you! And don't mind Cat (loathe her! she's evil!), she's just being like that cuz she hates Lynné. Plus she's finally gonna get her revenge and Lyn's acting like she could care less and that's ticking Cat off just a bit. And, I'm sorry to report, Liam sold her out. :( Just remember though, everything happens for a reason! And it'll all make sense in the end. I hope. o.o;;

_I just wanna thank everybody for being so understanding about the lack of updates last week. Oh, and for reviewing my new Mexico fic, too. Thanks a bunch, guys! I appreciate it! :D_

o


	37. Laughter in the Darkest Times

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Thirty-Seven: **Laughter in the Darkest Times

**Please excuse this rant!!! I am NOT in a good mood!**

Grr . . . people do _not _want me to finish this! I'm already lengthening my deadlines so I can write longer chapters, but now the bloody choral director/speech league coach/drama teacher (yeah, this guy does _every_thing) wants me to do lighting for the competition play my theater class is doing. I not even in the play! And I've never done lighting before, dang it, and he's acting like I'm experienced or something. Geh! e.e;; Ahem. u.u Anyway . . . this is going to make updating a bit more difficult considering the fact that I have to be in the auditorium for about two hours every night – even though I only have to change the bloody light setting four times XP! Then I'll be gone all day Saturday because of this thing. 9.9 Get up at four, ride on a bus for three hours, sit around some other skool for another three hours, watch other people perform, get back on bus, arrive home around midnight. Fun. 9.9 Anyway, in short, I don't know how soon I'll be able to post new chapters. Sorry for the ranting right there. Don't mind me, like I said, it hasn't been a good week. XO

* * *

"Agent Fusco!"

Instantly, Liam snapped to attention. His hair was disheveled, his shirt collar was unbuttoned, but his blue eyes were alert and ready to do Édouard Poisson's bidding. Whatever his orders were, he was prepared to follow through with them. He needed to stay on the Mafia don's good side.

_It's for the best, _he told himself for what had to be the thousandth time that morning. _It's for the best, it's for the best . . . _

"Agent Fusco," Poisson repeated, this time in a more deriding tone. Liam cringed. He hadn't been paying attention and the mobster knew it. Rather than belittle him for his mistakes, however, Poisson merely lowered his brow in disapproval and continued his speech as if nothing had happened.

"Mademoiselle Johnson informs me that we have a location on Agent Sands –"

Confused, Liam began, "But don't you have her in –"

"Her _brother, _Agent Fusco," Poisson sighed, looking disgusted. _If this man does not prove his worth soon . . . _he thought wearily. Out loud, he informed the clumsy American, "We have a location on her _brother_. He has apparently taken up residence in the Champs Elysées Plaza in Paris."

Liam looked surprised. "How –"

"Along," Poisson cut across strictly, "with Mademoiselle Samhain."

Now the agent was especially intrigued. Sands was with Zebbidy? Well . . . they _had _been together when last he saw the pair . . . And Sands was intent on keeping Zebbidy out of harm's way, and the massacre that had plagued la Maison de Poisson had gone past harm and beyond. That must have been it, then. After he and Lynné heard the shots being fired and made their departure, Sands had decided not to take any chances. He had to have fled the mansion after terminating a few mobsters, and he must have taken Zebbidy Samhain with him. They were probably safe and sound at Champs Elysées Plaza, completely unaware of the traitor who was sitting in a meeting with the Mafia don who was after their blood.

"What I need _you _to do, Agent Fusco," Poisson continued, oblivious to Liam's panicked ramblings, "is go to le Champs Elysées Plaza and pay them a visit. Comprenez-vous?"

His eyes still shining with regret, Liam stared directly at the Mafia leader and nodded.

He understood. He understood everything.

* * *

Zebbidy was distraught, a wreck, falling apart before his . . . Sands' lips curled into a scowl. He may have been a little uncertain on that last one, but he knew that he didn't need his sight to tell him when a person was upset. The only thing he did not know was why. _Why _Zebbidy was so emotional, why she was crying, why she gave a damn about _him_. It made no sense. No one cared about him, and that was the way he liked it. There weren't any liabilities if no one cared.

Lyn worried about him, of course, but she never expressed her feelings. Not visibly. Instinct was the only way Sands knew of her concern for him. But Zebbidy . . . There she was, flaunting her emotions like a schoolgirl wearing a training bra.

She was crying – crying for _him_. It was the strangest thing. Sands could not conjure up a single event where someone had done that. Lyn knew better, tears were one thing his father was incapable of producing, his mother was dead or else he could have counted on her if he wanted someone to lament, and Ajedrez . . .

She had betrayed him. Playing him like the fool he was she had lied, learned, and then stabbed him in the back. Bur she had reimbursed him . . . after _he_ had paid dearly for his own mistakes. No, Ajedrez would not have cried for him as Zebbidy had. She would have sooner left him for dead than shed a single tear.

He sighed, feeling the warmth of Zebbidy's arms as she pulled his thin frame closer to her own. Sands did not return the embrace, yet he let the young woman be. He didn't have the energy to resist her, and even if he did, he lacked the will to shove such innocent fondling away. Her tears fell freely, rolling down her cheeks and splashing onto his chest.

It was so odd, the way she cried. It was unnatural. Nothing about her mien changed. No sobs caught in her throat, no cries snagged her breath, her shoulders didn't shake as she leaned against him, gasps did not disorient her voice . . . Nothing revealed her mournful demeanor save for the salty patches of moisture that had gathered beneath her eyes.

"Zeb," he murmured finally, his voice dead and flat. "Don't. Don't do this."

"I know," she sighed wistfully. "I shouldn't be so upset, not when I don't even know what happened."

_Gods, but I do!_ she wailed pathetically in her mind. She could see the light pink tissue that ran under each of his eyes when she looked at him now. Scars. They were the only shreds of evidence left now; the only remnants of what had happened on the Day of the Dead. Seeing those scars made her want to cry again. She did nothing to stop her tears as they ran over the rims of her eyes, trickling down her face and finally resting on the sheets.

"Even if you _did_, you shouldn't get yourself worked up over it," Sands stated plainly. "It doesn't accomplish anything, so just . . . don't."

"_Don't cry for me, Argentina _. . ." Zebbidy sang quietly, staring blankly at an unimportant spot at the foot of the bed.

Sands made a noise of indifference deep within his throat before informing her that he had never cared for Andrew Lloyd Webber's famed classic _Evita_.

"Somehow," he drawled airily, "an entire musical about the First Lady of Argentina doesn't appeal to me."

_Don't cry for me, Argentina._

_The truth is I shall not leave you._

The tune echoed inside of her, reverberating throughout her body in endless quivers of pure, wavering melodies. Amidst the despair of the night, Zebbidy felt the gloom evaporating. It was as if a huge weight of depression had tumbled off of her shoulders when the notes began to play. The song still ringing passionately in her head and Sands' opinion of the music's origin clashing strongly with the lyrics, Zebbidy felt the corners of her mouth being tweaked into a smile and she allowed herself to laugh.

_Though it may get harder,_

_For you to see me . . ._

_I'm . . . Argentina . . ._

_And always will be._

* * *

"Ugh . . . you didn't tell me she slept like _that_."

"She always has, ever since we were kids. I don't know _why _she does it, but then again, I can't say there are many things I _do _know about my stepsister."

_Which is just fiiiiiine with _me_, Kitty Cat. Now shut your trap and piss off_.

From her uncomfortable position against the cold back of a small, rigid chair Lynné struggled to bring her blurry vision into focus. Her head hung like an anvil on her shoulders, weighing her down and causing her spine and neck to cry out in pain, but she ignored them. Right now she needed to hone all of her senses in on Cat and Harrington. Or more importantly, what they were _saying_.

"Hernandez wants to meet with her?" Harrington asked, looking every bit the slack-jawed moron Lynné had long suspected him to be.

"That's what she said," Cat confirmed, sounding distracted.

"What does _she _want with Lynné Sands?" her fiancé scoffed.

"What does _Poisson_ want with Lynné? I don't know."

Cat's words were sharp and aggravated, but Lynné heard something else. By the way her stepsister sounded, Lyn was certain she _did _know. Much more than she let on. Catherine had a secret and this was one she was intent on keeping.

_Eh_. Lynné gave a mental shrug. _She won't last long. Cat's never been able to keep something for more than twenty minutes without spilling her guts all over the floor. Tonight should be no different._

"When did she want to see her?" Harrington suddenly wanted to know, referring to Hernandez and Lynné.

"Soon," Lyn heard her stepsister reply offhandedly.

"Shouldn't we wake her, then?"

_Fuck no_, was Lynné's silent protest. _No way you're gettin' near me, buddy. Not with those busy hands. I know where they've been._

She had no sooner finished the thought when Harrington took a step towards her. Instantly, Lyn's eyelashes began to flutter. Slowly, she tilted her head from one side to the other like she was trying to get a crick out of her neck. If it weren't for handcuffs that pinned her arms behind her back, it would have looked as though she had just awoken from a heavy doze.

"No need, gang," she pleasantly informed her fellow agents. "I'm already up."

A smile spread across Catherine's face.

"Tell me, Lynné," she began as easily as if they were having a nice conversation over breakfast. "Do you know why you're here?"

"Yeah," Lyn answered calmly. A second later she stuck out her lower lip in a charming mock-pout. "I was a bad girl."

Her stepsister's grin turned into an ugly scowl as soon as the words left Lynné's mouth.

"Sarcasm is the lowest for of wit, you know," Cat informed her hotly.

"I know, but it's so much _fun_," Lyn confessed, grinning effortlessly.

Cat opened her mouth, perhaps to make a so-called 'snappy retort' or perhaps to chastise her stepsister for her immature behavior again, but whatever she had wanted to say was forever silenced when Harrington crossed the threshold.

"I know something _else _that's fun," he snarled. His arms shot down and to his right and clamped his hands around Lynn café's left shin.

When he looked into her eyes, he saw only one thing: Pure, unfathomable fear.

With a sadistic grin, Harrington wrenched . . .

. . . and pulled Lynné's leg clean off.

* * *

"You said you killed an important person when you pissed Barillo off." Zebbidy paused, thinking. "Is it all right if I ask who it was?"

For a moment she thought Sands had fallen asleep again, but then his small sigh – the one, Zebbidy noted, he made whenever he had something he didn't want to say – and she knew he was awake. They were both lying down, now, and feeling incredibly drowsy. It had all happened so suddenly. They had been sitting up at first, she had started to cry so she put her arms around him. They had stayed in that position for a long while before Zebbidy felt her eyelids being weighed down by sleep. Slowly, she had started to recline not noticing that Sands was still wrapped in her secure embrace when her head had finally hit the pillow.

His head now lay across her chest; his right ear pressed against her heart, listening to the steady beating that sounded every time it pulsed. A soothing sounded. It calmed him and she was grateful for that.

Sands lifted each eyelid slowly – it was an effort just to keep them open. He knew he could drop off at any given second, but he managed to pry his jaw apart enough to answer her.

"Ajedrez Barillo. His daughter," he added as an afterthought.

Instantly Zebbidy had a mental image of a young, Mexican girl who had to be no older than ten years of age. But the thought of Sands killing a child was monstrous. She doubted even _he _would commit such a horrible crime.

"Why'd you kill her?" she asked quietly.

Sands shrugged, his left shoulder rubbing against her stomach.

"Revenge," he said carelessly.

"For what Barillo did?"

"Partially."

He was beginning to turn into a one-word guy. That needed to stop. Zebbidy felt her strength revving up inside of her, preparing to press onward and perhaps even get up and make a truth inducing tea if necessary. She hoped it wouldn't be.

"What do you mean by partially?"

"They both deserved it," he stated tonelessly. "He was the one who had everything carried out, but _she _. . . she was the one who brought it on."

Zebbidy had nothing to say.

"I was screwing her, to say the least," he explained, taking her silence for confusion. "She told me she was on my side, saying she worked for the AFN – which she _did, _but I highly doubt they knew she was the heiress to a drug ring. So she told me what I guess I needed to know and gave me _everything_ I knew I wanted."

Zebbidy knew what he meant by that and resisted the impulse to roll her eyes.

"She sold you out?" she guessed.

He shifted uncomfortably as if he wanted to pull away from her, but Zebbidy suspected her embrace had nothing to do with it.

"Yeah." She could hear shame in his voice as he spoke and it pained her. There had been something between the two of them, he and Ajedrez, and Zebbidy felt certain that it had been much stronger than sex.

* * *

Lynné's breath caught halfway on the journey through her throat. She gasped, sputtered, and then fell silent. She stared at the floor, her eyes hollow and dead. She did not want to look at them. They were disgusting -- she _hated _them. To look at them would be hell. They would see the hurt and torment that shined within her eyes. They would see it and they would know. They would know that they had won, that they had beaten the unbeatable. And she would not allow that to happen.

_Well, go ahead. Say it._

_**Say what? **_the voice asked innocently.

_Don't mock me – you know what you wanna say so just get it out and leave me alone._

_**I was simply going to state that they are the lowest, most vile pieces of scum to walk this earth and I can't believe you'd let yourself get worked up over something they did.**_

_What? _Lynné wondered breathlessly.

**_It wasn't even that great, _**the voice scoffed as if it hadn't heard her. **_They pulled off your leg – big deal! Oooh . . . it was sooo climactic! Please. They did it because they knew it would have an impact on you. But it was _so _damn _easy_. That little prick Fusco probably told 'em about your leg so they'd know what to do if you were "difficult."_**

She had hoped the voice would forget to bring up Liam – she wanted to avoid thinking of him until the right time came – but she had to admit: It had a point. So Harrington had ripped off her leg. Score one for him, if he could really call that victory. Yes, the limb was gone and now anyone who walked into the room from now until the time her prosthetic was back in place would know the horrible truth. But who cared? She knew her leg was gone and that there was no way of replacing it unless she used a fake one. She had learned that four years ago in Mexico and she ever since then she had dealt with it like an adult. She never exactly came out and told people about it but when she did . . . when she had told Sands and Grace, when she had startled Moreau into agreeing to work for her . . . she had been calm. She had been cool. She hadn't cared.

Bringing her 'handicap' out in the open wasn't all _that _bad. It might even lure people into thinking that she wasn't a threat. That they could get away with lies and violence and threats and insults and that she wouldn't be able to do a thing about it. Seeing the look on their faces when she whipped out two pistols and blew their asses away. Or when she met a person for the first time and lifted her skirt saying, 'Hey, check this out.' There was always the shock value to consider.

**_And we all know you just looove making people stop in their tracks._**

_Oh yes_, she murmured in agreement, not fighting the smile the thought brought to her lips.

In the real world, Catherine glared.

"What the hell are you doing?"

_Oh Mr. Durang, I do love you , _Lynné sighed blissfully. And then, she began to quote, '_So then I said to him:_'

"I am laughing wild amid severest woe," she informed her stepsister calmly.

"What is _wrong _with you?" Cat demanded, looking revolted.

'_And he looked at me blankly, and I said,_'

"I am laughing wild!" she snickered insanely.

"What?" Cat sneered, looking superior but not quite masking the confusion she was feeling.

'_And since he didn't seem to get it, I threw back my head, and I let out this enormous frightening laugh I do at parties:_'

And Lynné Sands did just that not noticing the door as it slowly eased open.

"AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!"

"Agente Sands, I see you haven't changed. Still crazy."

For the second time that night, Lynné's breath caught in her throat. As her head snapped downward, she was met with a sight she thought she would never have to see again. For one split second she merely stared at the figure that stood in the doorway. It somewhat silhouetted by the faint light that grew from behind it. The figure stared back at her, surveying her with eyes of judgement. And then, Lynné broke the stunned silence by uttering the only words she could think of.

"Oh my Christ . . ." she breathed, her tone light with disbelief. "I see dead people."

_

* * *

_

_XD! I'm so corny. I mean, that last bit was beyond cheesey, but then again, Lyn's lines tend to lean towards lame, don't they? I know Sands' kinda did in OUaTiM. It was like they were lame but with a cool edge, y'know? Just one of the many things I love about him, I guess. :)_

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses**

**Dawnie-7: **Believe you me, Cat's gonna get what's coming to her one way or another. I don't even like writing her that much unless it involves Lyn or Sands messing with her head or something. And it's such a relief to hear that Sands is being himself. :D

**morph: **Aww . . . thinking about my fics while watching Mexico. That's so cool to hear! :D I'm so shocked that everybody turned on Liam so quickly! o.o Not that I can blame anyone. 'Redeem himself or die' that made me laugh. And those are pretty much his options, too. And it's really hard to redeem yourself when dealing with Sands or Lyn. O.o;;

**fanfiction fanatic: **Thanks :) Glad you liked the chapter. I knew I had to let Zeb find out sooner or later. Turns out it was later. A lot later than I expected, but, hey, at least she knows now.

**Lynx Ryder: **O.O! Poor Liam! Everyone's against him! I know. I shouldn't feel bad for him after what he did, but I can't help myself. And Zeb has a big thing against needles. She doesn't think they're as necessary as doctors make them out to be. Unfortunately, my Sands had some feelings for Ajedrez. :( I've always thought that he had to have felt some bit of love for her because he trusted her enough to let her in on his plan to steal the money and flee the country. To trust someone enough to tell them something like that involves at least some kind of love – for my Sands, at least. It's as they say in _Moulin Rouge_: 'Without trust, there is no love.' Something like that. :) lol, Sands _is _a typical man! Deep down, anyway. It's so wonderful to hear that you found the last chapter so enjoyable. And I've gotta agree, shorter chapters have nothing on longer ones :)

**zigzag: **New reviewer! (waves) Hey! :D Thank you! It's nice ot hear that people are still reading Home after all this time. And thank you for the compliments as well. They were very sweet :)

**DragonHunter200: **I dunno about it being the most well-written, but I appreciate the compliment anyway! :D Good to hear it was entertaining, too. I had hoped for that. And I'm so glad you liked the dream sequence! I really was worried about that one. (nervously holds up hands) Okay, there's a reason! Well . . . kinda . . . He's feeling _guilty _for a reason, at least.

o


	38. Irony

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Thirty-Eight: **Irony

Y'know . . . I am _reeeally _getting annoyed with this website. It wouldn't let be upload the last chapter for abouttwo days before I actually managed to get a chapter posted! I was ready to post it a while ago but FFN kept saying I couldn't log in. XO!! Grrr . . . I'm flirting with the idea of finding a new website. I really am. But I probably won't. Not until I finish this story, at least. u.u

* * *

"What if she's still alive?" 

The question was soft, hollow sounding, maybe even a little fearful. It mingled on the line between worry and childlike innocence. The sheer concern he had expressed stunned her. And just like that, something changed between them. It was something left unsaid, something neither of them ever mentioned, but Zebbidy knew. She now felt more connected with the man in her arms than ever before.

In his voice, Zebbidy could hear the frightened little boy he had once been long ago, before whatever had happened to make him the man he was today occurred. Before he had become so cold and distant. Before he made sure he isolated himself from love and care. No one was born with the kind of barriers that ran around Sands. The agent had put them up himself . . . for reasons she hoped she would someday know.

His head was still resting lightly on top of her chest, his left arm draped casually across her torso, while her own arms were placed delicately over his back. Slowly, almost tentatively, she brought a hand up and let her long fingers become entangled in his hair. Sands didn't protest and Zebbidy didn't think he minded.

The question repeated itself in her head.

'_What if she's still alive?_'

Zebbidy knew who 'she' was. Ajedrez. Señorita Barillo. The beautiful vixen who had lured Sands into her trap and then snatched him up and ripped his eyes out with her claws. She had gotten him to trust, perhaps even love – two factors Zebbidy had to give her credit for – and then she had thrown all of that out the window and shattered every thread of compassion Sands might have held. Zebbidy decided she hated that woman for doing such a thing. She didn't approve of killing people, but she didn't blame Sands in the least for what he had done.

'_What if she's still alive?_'

"What makes you say that?" she wondered aloud, absently stroking his hair. It was soft beneath her fingertips and that surprised her.

Sands lifted his left hand, palm up, and waved it in a makeshift shrug.

"Y'know how Rosa caused this?" He gestured carelessly towards his eyes and dropped the hand, letting it fall limply at Zebbidy's side. "I thought it was her and I freaked, to say the least."

"Ohh . . ." she sighed, breathless with understanding. Sands had killed Ajedrez but he hadn't seen her die. Without that evidence, she realized, he couldn't be sure. He couldn't be sure that she was truly and undeniably dead. So suddenly seeing a woman who must have resembled his former girlfriend to some extent would have been like a strong hit to the gut. The impact would have sent his senses reeling, severely winding him, causing all sorts of disorientations, and unearthing haunting memories.

And suddenly, there was a click. Everything fell into place. At last, everything made sense.

_I can see clearly now, the rain is gone . . ._ she had to stop herself from singing out loud.

"Well," Zebbidy began in measured tones, "if she _is _alive . . . then you'll kill her again."

"I didn't kill her the first time," he protested, his voice rising with worry. "That's my _point_. If I can't kill the bitch once, what would enable me to do it . . . a . . . second time . . ."

He trailed off, letting his words float in midair. Tranquil silence filled the room, a pleasant replacement for the worry that had once been a prominent emotion in the suite. He curled his fingers around the blankets, becoming quiet once he finally noticed Zebbidy's touch. He should have been annoyed, or at least feigned irritation, but he felt neither and showed nothing, only heavy apathy that was dragging closer towards a comatose state. He didn't bother to fight it this time. Sleep was good. As long as _she _made herself scarce whenever he finally dropped off.

**_Yeah, good luck with that. I'm sure if you simply tell Ajedrez that you're sleepy, she'll leave you alone. She's understanding like that._**

_She's _dead.

_**Yeah, sure. Then why does Rosa look like her?**_

_She's a fucking reincarnate of The Bitch? I don't know._

And suddenly he realized he didn't. He really _didn't _know what was going on. He had no clue whatsoever. There were vague ideas and theories here and there, but he didn't _really _know what was happening.

He should have known from the second the CIA was unable to unearth any information that there was something wrong about Rosa Hernandez. What did he know aside from orphan with blue eyes, black hair, a great ass, and a shit load of money? Absolutely nothing. Nil. Zip. Zilch. Zero. Diddly squat. Who _was_ she? Ajedrez's sister? He decided on no, going by what that one dream had contained. She wasn't her half-sister either, or her cousin for that matter. Twin? Clone? Hell, he was ready to believe anything at this point.

He worked his throat, trying to unglue his sticky vocal cords. So far all he accomplished was an increased amount of mucus and a sore throat. Perhaps waiting it out or goading his body into functioning were better ways to go, but Sands had never been famous for his patients.

"Lyn said – on the Day of the Dead – that she was spoken with her, asking where I was, but the bitch kicked the bucket before she could tell her anything."

"But you don't think she died," Zebbidy murmured, voicing his unspoken thought.

Sands shook his head and whispered hoarsely, "No."

He could feel her nodding as she took all of this in, like a computer downloading a file before finally running the program. His eyelids were growing heavier by the second, but Sands forced himself to stay awake.

"I can understand that," Zebbidy agreed considerately. "There's a good chance she was just unconscious. Lynné may have been wrong –"

"Lyn's never wrong," he interrupted sounding more confused than defiant.

"Oh . . ." she sighed thoughtfully. "Well . . . there's always a first time for everything. Isn't that what she'd say?"

Sands' only response was to snuggle into her and pray that Zebbidy mistook it as a shifting of positions.

* * *

_God, how did I wind up _here Liam wondered as he roamed the hallways of Poisson's mansion, having lost his way while in search of the exit. No one was awake at this hour, and anyone that was up was either standing guard or safely hidden away in their offices. 

_Or dungeons_, Liam couldn't help but think. He wasn't sure if a dungeon was where Lynné was being held prisoner, but it was the only image his mind could conjure up. He smiled fondly as he imagined what kind of torture chambers Lynné could come up with. She had always been very imaginative, if not slightly twisted.

He had hoped that the Mafia don would have sent several men to accompany him, that way he could attempt to keep a conversation going and avoid the panicked thoughts that threatened to bombard him. But no. Poisson had wanted everything to look as though Liam was still working for the CIA, like he was trying to help Sands and Zebbidy, like he wasn't the sniveling, pathetic traitor that he really was.

Again he thought of Lynné and what had done to her. Betrayal was one of the lowest things a person could do in Lynné's book. It was right down there with attacking someone in an elevator that was still in motion. Yes, he was in quite a pit at the moment, and he was only sinking deeper. By the time he got out of the labyrinth that was Poisson's mansion, he imagined he would have one foot in hell. And when he finally found Sands and Zebbidy, he would already be burning.

At least then he would have a vague idea of what Lynné had felt like. That Day. The day she had been forgotten by her own agency, cast aside like a pesky child that nobody wanted to deal with. Her situation had, in a way, been like a child's. When Mom or Dad didn't want the kid around, they would give them a new toy to play with and send them on their way. That's what the CIA had done with his partner – Liam cringed as the word automatically came to him. The Company hadn't wanted Lynné around, so they gave her a new assignment – a new toy – to occupy her for a time and then sent her off to Mexico, hoping to get her out of their hair and perhaps some relief for a little while. Then, when things had gone awry, when she had demanded their attention . . . they had blown her off, ignoring her warnings and her threats.

_And Harrington hung up on her, _Liam reminded himself. _But he meant to do that._

No, Lynné's phone hadn't cut out because of a bad connection all those years ago. She had told him about it cutting off after he had retrieved her ('rescued' was what Liam called it, Lynné always said he had given her a lift). Liam didn't know the CIA had intentionally deserted Lynné and even if he did, he wouldn't have believed it. His partner – again Liam winced – didn't know it either, although she certainly had her suspicions lined up. Only after the CIA failed to look for her at his rental home in Mexico, only after they had called him and said that Agent Lynné Sands had been deemed MIA and that the search for her had been discontinued . . . Only then did Liam realize how right Lynné had been.

He hadn't wanted to doubt the CIA – they were part of the American government; their job was to protect the citizens of the United States as well as the rest of the world – yet after knowing that they would just abandon one of their own agents like that. . . He never trusted the CIA after what they had done to Lynné, and his faith in them had only lessened a year ago when he learned that Sands had undergone a similar experience.

But only recently did he learn of Harrington's role in the plan. The CIA hadn't discarded Lynné. They hadn't wanted her around and her sudden disappearance had been like a dream come true . . . But they hadn't burned her intentionally. Harrington was working under different authorities when he had hung up on her. Authorities that were connected to the CIA, but were certainly not the agency themselves.

_At least now everything makes sense, _Liam sighed dejectedly.

Placing his hands upon a majestic pair of mahogany doors, he pushed and stepped outside into the fading moonlight.

* * *

The room where they had taken her was small and square. Barren. The walls were a stern, emotionless slate gray, as were the floors and the ceiling. Desolate. There were no windows and, from what she could tell, only one exit: A narrow, steel plate door. Around its edges ran a brilliant glow – light from whatever was outside. A hallway, Lyn guessed. She was positioned right in front of the door, just a few feet (_And two cuffed hands_) away from the handle. 

To her left there was a table – cheap aluminum like the uncomfortable chair she was bound to. If she tilted her head all the way back, she could see the single bulb that hover directly above her, hanging on a sleek black cord. But she didn't look at the light for too long; it hurt her eyes and made them water and the last thing she needed was the back-stabbing brigade to think she was crying.

She let her head drop back down, hearing her neck crack in the process. Great. Now she was going to be tortured _and _have a cramp. What a bright, sun shiny day this was turning out to be.

Cat leaned against the wall, arms akimbo, smirking at her in triumph. At long last, she had finally succeeded in shocking her stepsister into silence. Good for her. Lyn was glad she could make her day.

Beside Cat stood Harrington, his arm around the narrow, shapeless hip of his fiancée, looking just as smug. Whatever traces of doubt she had held vanished the moment he locked eyes with her. She knew, now, that Harrington had made no mistake when he hung up on her in Mexico those four years ago.

**_Yeah, you're probably right, _**the voice agreed reluctantly. **_Though recent events have swayed my confidence in you just a bit. Thing is, I was under the impression that _you_ were never wrong._**

_I'm not. This was just bad judgement on my part._

_**You're such a dumbass, **_the voice patronized in disgust. **_You could've at _least _checked the bitch's pulse before running off._**

_Well excuse me if I cared more about getting my ass out of there than making sure she was dead._

_**You should have! That's what everyone **_**always _does! They forget! They forget to completely eliminate the bad guy and then they pay for it in the end. God, you're such a dumbass, Lynné._**

_Cool it, honey, I've got this._

_**That doesn't reassure me, Lynné.**_

_The only thing that's holding me back is a set of handcuffs._

_**Point?**_

_I'm CI-fucking-A, remember? Where were you when I learned escape plans?_

When the voice offered no answer Lynné knew she had won that quarrel. But winning a mental argument with the voice in her head meant nothing to the group of people who had gathered in her holding chamber. There were four of them, two she knew, one was a stranger, and one she thought had died along with the hundreds of others who had perished on the Day of the Dead.

"So good to see you again, Angie," she greeted, still a little breathless from shock. "Funny thing . . . I thought you'd _died_."

"I only wish I could say the same about _you_," Ajedrez returned snidely. Her voice was quiet and calculating as she eyed Lynné critically. "Then again, if you were dead, I wouldn't be able to enjoy the pleasure of watching you suffer."

_Like I didn't see _that _one coming,_ Lyn snorted. _Christ, could this chick _be _more predictable?_

"You're looking rather worse for wear, Lynné," Ajedrez continued mockingly, unaware of her captive's degrading thoughts. "Not at all what I expected."

"Rest assured," Lyn told her, "if I'd've known who I was being taken to, I would've shaved my legs this morning."

"Legs."

The word hung in the air, dripping with hilarity and filled mocking and sarcastic disbelief. Nobody said a word. All action halted abruptly. Time itself seemed to have stopped.

Ajedrez gazed at her for a moment, surveying her with those merciless eyes, eyes that bore no pity, only cruel mirth, eyes that did not sympathize but taunted. In the short time she had to stare into the honey colored orbs, Lynné was told all she needed to know: She was screwed, completely and undeniably.

"Funny you should mention legs," Ajedrez began, pacing regally in front of her, her arms folded over her ample chest. "Did you know that your brother was the one who shot me?"

Lyn knew she was referring to the Day of the Dead and nodded.

"Didn't shoot you enough, though, I guess."

"No." Ajedrez shook her head, a very dark look clouding her face. "He shot me enough to do some damage, though."

"I wouldn't worry about it," Lynné assured her offhandedly. "Some guys like girls that are a little marked up." She grinned. "I oughta know."

"But do you know what really destroyed everything for me?" Ajedrez prodded, ignoring the comment. She strode over to her prisoner, uncrossing her arms as she went, and placed a hand on each of the armrests flanking Lyn's chair. Eye level with her enemy, so close their noses were but a few inches apart, she hissed quietly, venom dripping from every word, "_You_ . . . when you kicked me with those ugly black boots of yours. The doctors would have been able to repair the damage had you not been so spiteful. But _now_ – " She gave a soft, humorless laugh. " – thanks to _you_, I can no longer eat properly, I cannot bear the children that were destined to carry on my family's legacy, and every day . . . I am _forced _to attach a set of plastic appendages to my hips because I can no longer walk like a normal human being . . . all . . . because . . . of _you_."

Lynné cringed inwardly.

_Shit._

"Well you know what they say, sugar-beets," she murmured softly, her lips barely parting. "People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones. It was rather inconsiderate of you when you made that comment about my visage."

Ajedrez pulled away sharply, her face molted in revulsion at how disgustingly frustrating the young woman could be.

"And anyway, it wasn'tmy fault," Lyn began to explain, her eyes following the other woman. As Ajedrez backed into the metal table and took a seat, Lynné continued her defense. "Sands is, after all, the one who shot you. If he hadn't done that, I would've been able to kick you and you'd be just fine. But, _really_ . . . he only shot you in the first place because you played him, betrayed him, sold him out to your father, and then got his eyes ripped out of his skull." She paused, a thoughtful look crossing her expression. "And _that _gave him a motive. So, really, darling . . . you brought this on yourself."

"And now I'm going to finish it," Ajedrez retorted coolly. "I wasn't there the day my father took your leg, but he often described it to me. The look on your face when it hit you. You knew you weren't going to make it out of there in one piece. He always thought it was so strange . . . how you didn't scream when the saw began to break your flesh."

"Did you know it was me when my brother introduced us?" Lyn demanded, her voice barely above a whisper.

Slowly, a smile spread across the other woman's face and Lynné knew the answer before a word was spoken.

"I did, but not at first. Before my father confirmed everything I only had my suspicions. You hide your disability very well."

"I don't hide it," Lynné corrected, "I simply care not to parade the fact around."

Ajedrez's lips curled into an even wider smile as her eyes lit with amusement.

"You are going to die, Lynné Sands," she declared softly, "and I am going to watch it happen. But not before you pay for all that you have burdened me with. And while you are reimbursing me for your crimes " she added, "we will be getting a hold of your brother, so _he _can witness yourinfinite torture and then suffer with you."

_Oh boy, here we go, _Lyn sighed uninterestedly. _This must be part of my torture. She's gonna try to talk me to death, which is actually really stupid because once the real torment begins, my brain'll be too numb_ _with monotony to care._

As she felt boredom begin to settle in, Lynné didn't bother to fight it. Knowing Ajedrez, she would ramble on for a good twenty minutes, listing off each and every torture she had in store for her and sparing no details. Lyn found that she really didn't want to hear that; after all, she wasn't planning on sticking around for it, so she embraced the lassitude and allowed her mind to wander freely.

Her eyes drifted, taking her from Cat who was fondling her leg without care, to Richard Harrington – fucking prick was ogling Ajedrez when he was supposed to be engaged to Cat. Her eyes took her past Ajedrez who had yet to reach the end of her speech, and at last they landed on the stranger. The tall, dark, unconceivable _hansom _stranger who was standing behind and to the right of Ajedrez. He met her gaze and Lynné felt the edges of her mouth twitch, wanting to break into a seductive smile and bat her lashes flirtatiously. It would be an act, but it would be fun. She was just about to flip her hair teasingly when a sudden utterance made her freeze where she sat.

"You killed my father."

"Excuse me, _what_?"

"You killed my father," Ajedrez repeated, her voice dangerously low.

Lynné was silent as she stared up at her, her eyes dark and unreadable. So, Ajedrez thought that she was the one responsible for the assassination of Armando Barillo. Lyn could understand that. But what she didn't understand was Ajedrez's _meaning_. Did the bitch think she had brought on the death of her father by being involved in Sands' plan to flee Mexico? Did she think that Lynné had been the one to engage the service of "El Mariachi?" Or did Ajedrez merely think that Lynné had flat-out killed her father?

"No I didn't," Lyn said bluntly, keeping her face impassive and calm.

"You did," Ajedrez countered testily.

After a quick thinning of the lips – one of her brief smiles – Lynné leaned forward as much as the cuffs would allow and let a single word flow lightly from her lips.

"Didn't."

"_I saw you kill him_!"

Ajedrez seethed, rage emanating off of her in fiery bolts, glowing like hot coals. Her fists clenched, imbedding her fingernails into the palms of her hands as her anger continued to radiate. Lynné cocked her head, as if pausing so she could take a moment to think. Her lips were pursed, scrunched in a mid-kissing position like phony immersion. She took a while, but at long last Lynné drew her mouth back, smoothing out the puckered wrinkles and letting her lips slide back into their usual sulky position. Finally, she proffered her thoughts.

"Are you . . . _sure_ . . . of what you saw? Cuz you could be mista –"

"I was _not_," she assured her, her voice escaping her gritted teeth like a furious threat, "_mistaken_." Ajedrez drew herself up again, regaining the smug composure that had evaporated in her moment of outrage, and scrutinized Lynné through carefully calculating eyes.

"I came to shortly after you left. I could still see your feet as you moved further and further away from me. I could have still killed you, of course," she added lightly as if it was obvious, "but I found that I had lost my guns."

Her eyes narrowed as a broad grin slid over Lynné's face, but Ajedrez did not express her annoyance any further.

"And then, you stopped. You had seen something. Possibly your bastard brother, but I knew he had gone in the other direction. And then I remembered . . ." She took a moment to loop her legs around each other again. "My father had fallen out of the window of the building you were standing in front of. When I saw him fall, I assumed he had died on impact, but no. He was still alive, and you knew this. So you stopped and spoke with him.

"And then . . ." Ajedrez narrowed her eyes contemptuously, building tension for the climax she had obviously prepared for. "I heard a shot, I saw you, I saw his corpse, and put the two together at once. Conclusion?" She leaned forward, her voice grew cold with spite, yet her words still seeped with fiery vehemence. "_You _– _killed – my – **father**_."

Ajedrez glared at her. Her eyes, lit with miniscule fires, threw burning daggers of hatred at her while Lynné herself was silent. Cat and Harrington stood next to the plain metallic door, forgotten in the moment of confusion in which accusations had been made and threats had been fired. Lynné remained in her impassive phase. Her expression was cool and emotionless as she stared back at Ajedrez through blank eyes and when she finally spoke, her lips barely seemed to move.

"That's quite a claim, there, girl, but . . . how do you know it's correct? You had been having a rough day, you'd just lost how many pints of blood . . . for all you know, I could've been putting Barillo out of his misery."

"I doubt that," Ajedrez replied softly. "Now –"

"Rosa Hernandez," Lynné cut in. There was no need to continue; they both knew what she meant.

"For my plan to work, I needed everyone to believe I was dead. I couldn't very well do that when the CIA was planning to send Zebbidy Samhain to Édouard Poisson when she was infested with bugs. So a replacement was in order. I hired a girl to fill in for me whenever my presence was required."

"That'd be Rosa," Lyn acknowledged.

"She's done her job well, gathering information and passing it onto me. Not only that. Hernandez has proved to be very useful to me."

Her eyes widening in feigned surprise, Lynné remarked, "That's strange . . . I wouldn't've thought you were into that kind of thing. Then again, you may just do it to get _him _aroused –" she nodded to the dark haired man who still flanked Ajedrez "— so he'll be extra good in bed. It's the sorta thing I'd do . . . if I was desperate for a good lay, at least."

While Ajedrez wrinkled her nose in disgust and stared down at her in stunned outrage, the man at her side slid a well toned hand around her slim hips, confirming Lyn's theory about the two being lovers. An accomplished feeling rising inside her, she smirked.

"Care to introduce him? I'm sure he's fascinating."

She blinked seductively. Ajedrez scowled.

"Adrián is none of your concern," she spat resentfully.

"I'm sure he's a good dog, though," Lynné commented breezily. "He probably does whatever you tell him to do, cuz he knows if he doesn't there goes the money, there goes the sex, and there goes his life right out the door." Her eyes flickered to Adrián, taking in his dark eyes, broad nose, strong cheekbones, and his hair done in a Desi Arnaz pompadour hairstyle. Good looking and a push over. Too easy. Grinning maliciously, she chided, "Good boy."

Adrián opened his mouth to speak but Ajedrez cut him off at once. Pushing herself off of the table she growled an infuriated "We're going" to her accomplices and stalked toward the steel door in a huff, limping on her prosthetic legs as she went.

Haughty grin still in place – _She's probably feeling superior because she just went fifteen minutes without talking_, Lyn thought snidely – Cat looped her arm through Harrington's and followed her flustered employer out. Lynné noted that Ajedrez made the two former CIA agents leave before she and her lover did.

_She doesn't trust them. Eh. Even if Cat did turn on her, it wouldn't be that big a deal. Hell, Cat'd probably tell Ajedrez she was gonna betray her before she actually did it._

Ajedrez stopped just as she reached the exit. A thought seemed to have struck her. Turning slowly, she faced Lynné, an evil grin spread wide across her tanned face.

"See you later, Lynné."

Resisting the automatic urge to roll her eyes, Lyn threw her a careless, "Fuck you."

"Sorry, I don't do women," Ajedrez replied coolly.

"Who said I was talking to you?" Lynné retorted snidely. As she spoke her eyes trailed away from Ajedrez's face. She met Adrián's gaze and blew him a kiss.

With a revolted look, the man took Ajedrez's hand in his as if to prove that he was truly in love with her, and began to open the door.

"Hey, Adrián!" Lynné called cheerfully, once again putting their departure on hold. The pretty boy spun around, his dark eyebrows furrowed in anger and annoyance. Unfazed, she smiled. "Just wanted you to know . . . I like dogs.

"And Ajedrez?" she continued questioningly. "Before you go, I'd like to tell you something."

Ajedrez glared, hands on her hips, waiting for her to go on. Still smiling, Lynné leaned forward slightly and in a low, eerily flat voice, uttered a single warning:

"Je vous recevrai, ma jolie – " her eyes flickered momentarily to Adrián "— et votre petit chien, aussi."

* * *

_Don't hate me! (winces) When Zebbidy had her vision of Ajedrez and everyone started guessing that Ajedrez was Rosa, I merely said that they weren't the same person. I never said that The Bitch wasn't_ alive_. Also, in the end of OUaTiM, El shot Barillo and he fell out a window – fun! – but we never saw him actually_ die_. It's highly unlikely that a person could still be alive after all of that but, hey, Marquez survived after being shot in the heart, didn't he? And besides . . . 9.9 Lynné suddenly reminded me that, while Sands got his revenge for what the Barillo cartel had done to_ him_, she never got hers. And I thought the idea of Ajedrez having to have not one but both of her legs removed was a decent bit of irony. And I wanted to give her a boyfriend so Lyn could pretend to come onto him and piss Ajedrez off. :)_

_What Lynné just said in the end of this chapter is a quote that everyone should be familiar with. I would have put the English translation right in parenthesis like I usually do, but I thought it would ruin the moment. Won't keep you guys in the dark, though (using that saying lightly especially now 9.9;). In English, that scene would have sounded something like this:_

"I'll get you, my pretty –" her eyes flickered momentarily to Adrián "— and your little dog, too."

_Hah, I love that. Okay, that done, time to respond to my reviews :)_

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses **

**vanillafluffy: **Don't worry, Liam's got a reason for his sudden betrayal. Dunno how good a reason it is, but he's got one nonetheless. And he's proved his loyalty to the Poisson's in many shapes and forms. Everything will be revealed shortly – hopefully in the next chapter. o.o;;

**Dawnie-7: **Well . . . kinda. See, when Lyn freaks out, things get bad for her, and when things get bad for _her, _things get bad for the voice. To prevent any psychological mishaps the voice has to keep Lyn in check so _it _doesn't suffer along with her. So, really, the voice is looking out for itself, not Lynné. But that's another one of those mental author's notes that I always forget to mention. :D;

**morph: **Yep, after the initial shock wore off, everything was cool as far as the leg was concerned. Funny, I never linked the leg removal to the first time we saw Sands without his eyes cuz I usually relate two things together immediately. O.o

**Lynx Ryder: **lol, it's great to hear you're so enthusiastic about the story and its characters, though. Makes me smile. :D Can't make any promises about Liam making up for his wrongdoing; dunno if the guilt's getting to him enough to do that. I'll certainly try, though :) And you called Zeb realistic! That's so great to hear since she has a lot of Mary Sue-like qualities. I knew that there were a lot of emotions in the last chapter but I didn't really pick up on just how many of them were unnatural to the characters. And poor Sands . . . I doubt he's ever felt ashamed in his life so that scene was definitely not the easiest thing to write. Not to turn into a raving fangirl, but he looks so cute when he's penitent! I have the image in my head and it's downright adorable! o.o I think it's the way his lips look, not necessarily his eyes. For me, Captain Jack is all about the eyes, but I absolutely love Sands' lips. Not even in the sense that I want to kiss them; I just _like _them. To me, of all the Johnny Depp characters, Sands has the best lips. They're just . . . _nice_.

Sands: u.u!

Sidney: Well, at least my pointless ramblings have put him in a good mood tonight. Moving on, I can't help but feel sorry for Liam when everyone's against him. To me, he's still the helpful little coward from TLWH that we all know and used to love. :D;

**zigzag: **You nearly cried? Oh my God . . . I can't believe that. Didn't think I'd ever hear it – not to say that I'm not pleased :D; Thank you very much!

**fanfiction fanatic: **As always, thank you and, of course, I'll try to update as soon as possible. I always do. :)

_Happy Chanukah to anyone who celebrates it! Gut yontev!_

_o_


	39. Here Comes the Sun

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Thirty-Nine: **Here Comes the Sun

Before I begin – because you all know I tend to forget things like this – I'd like to point out the title of this chapter. _Here Comes the Sun _is a Beatles song for anyone who's unfamiliar with the band. I think the lyrics fit this chapter quite nicely and . . . that's all I have to say. u.u Except that my mental image of Cat is finally complete! Okay, brace yourselves for this, cuz if you hate her now, this is probably just gonna increase your loathing -- I know _I'm _thoroughly disgusted with her, now. 9.9 Okay, I've come to realize that Catherine looks like . . . Paris Hilton. Or at least my mental image of her does. Only Cat has straight, shoulder-length, dark brown hair and Paris Hilton's is . . . well, I don't know what the heck it's doing now. Really don't care either, dumb no-talent skank . . . Anyway, yeah. Cat, to me, looks like a brunet Paris Hilton. Feel free to express your loathing for her. I know I do. :D

* * *

Liam shook his head, wondering for what had to be the hundredth time just _how _he had wound up in this situation. He didn't know why he kept asking himself that question. He knew exactly how he had gotten into his hole. What he didn't know was how it had become so deep. Deep and filled to the brim with guilt. 

He twisted the steering wheel of his SUV around as he turned down rue de Courcelles. Only one more street to go and he would be at his destination. Liam didn't want to think about what would happen then. He knew what he had to do; Poisson had given him specific instructions and a long list of escape plans should anything go awry. Still, he was sick with the thought of lying to someone who barely trusted him to begin with. Instead, he thought of his previous decisions, actions made in the past that now marked the timeline of his betrayal, starting right at Day One.

While waiting for Damiano the now-deceased hit man to meet him at a selected restaurant, boredom had begun to take a hold of him. Wanting to keep himself alert, Liam let his eyes scan the room, taking in his surroundings. No sooner had he started his observation when a rather interesting pair came into view. It was none other than Édouard Poisson enjoying his lunch with one Catherine Johnson.

". . . being a former agent of the CIA, I _would _have access to that kind of information," Catherine had been saying. "Also," she added, "she's my stepsister."

"Mademoiselle Johnson, that, if anything, tells me that I _shouldn't _be trusting you," Poisson informed her studiously. "Instead it tells me that _you _are lying and that this is a scheme belonging to the American government who is trying to get the better of me once again."

"I assure you, monsieur," Catherine had said sweetly, "this is no ploy . . ."

After that, Liam heard no more. At that moment, the third arm he had borrowed off of Sands had begun to part company with his shoulder and he had rushed to reattach it. He had only heard a small fragment of the conversation between Édouard Poisson and Agent Johnson, but that was all it had taken. He knew full-well Catherine had been talking about Lynné and as soon as his meeting with Damiano had ended, Liam had wasted no time in confronting Agent Johnson at her hotel.

Slowly, he turned onto rue de Berri and watched number thirty-five, the magnificent Champs Elysées Plaza, come into view.

He had met with Catherine. He had met with Poisson. They had asked questions, and he had filled them in on everything – one segment at a time. Years of partnership with Lynné had taught him a lot about striking deals. And Liam had benefited from that. He made sure to leak information to Poisson gradually, taking care not to give him too much at once or else he, Liam ,would soon be of no use. And in Édouard Poisson's book, all that was useless was disposed of.

Lynné's leg, Sands and the Day of the Dead, Ajedrez – Liam was surprised to learn that Poisson knew of the Barillos – he had told them everything over time. And now all of his work would finally pay off.

The engine hummed and eventually died after Liam removed the key from the ignition. He sighed and slowly leaned forward, letting his head crash down on top of the steering wheel, the weight of guilt and depression finally becoming too much.

_It's for the best_, he repeated to himself, though the line had long since lost its meaning. _It's for the best, it's for the best, it's for the best . . ._

* * *

Sparkling white tiles gleamed beneath her feet, their dazzling glare brought on by highly effective polish and the halogen bulbs that burned above her. Zebbidy blinked, seeing nothing but shimmering stars during the brief periods of darkness. At last, her vision cleared, though the gleaming floor still glowed, its shine not wavering in the least. 

Her own image was reflected in the lucent floor. She saw herself, a pale, confused person with straggly hair and smudged makeup.

She was in a kitchen, she realized after several seconds of observation. It was a lovely kitchen; quaint. Not at all like the ones Poisson had that resembled a cooking area one might find in a restaurant instead of a house. She had known a place like this at one point in her life. When she was still a child, when she still lived just off the coast of Wisconsin, before her parents had been mercilessly taken from her by people she never should have known.

White paint had been splashed on the walls, something Zebbidy normally would have found too cold and icy for a kitchen. But whoever had chosen the décor clearly knew a thing or two about decorating. From where she stood, Zebbidy had a clean view of the charming kitchen. In front of her was an island that had two stools flanking its right side – a makeshift bar, perhaps? Zebbidy doubted it. Peering farther back, she could make out a table and chair inside what appeared to be a breakfast nook. Windows surrounded this area and blue and white checkered curtains clustered around each of them. Cabinets and countertops lined the wall to the right of her. Each cupboard was made of a dark, deeply polished wood she couldn't identify. To her left were all of the typical appliances one might find. The refrigerator and dishwasher were there, as well as a pad of paper and a telephone that hung on the wall.

Standing next to the phone, her slender finger leaning casually against the wall, was a woman Zebbidy was certain she had never seen before. But she must have . . . for the knew the woman from somewhere. Everything about her seemed familiar. Her dark hair, her slim frame, her calm stance . . . Everything but her eyes. They were a piercing blue. Zebbidy had been expecting brown. And quite suddenly, Zebbidy knew whom she was being reminded of.

_Lynné_. Zebbidy had no idea of the young woman's whereabouts, nor did she know of her fate, but something – something much stronger than women's intuition – told her that she was still alive. Maybe not well, but alive nonetheless.

The woman who stood before her now was deep in conversation, but not with Zebbidy. She spoke quietly into the phone, murmuring to whomever was on the other line – a business colleague by the sound of things – and giving the occasional nod of understanding. But despite the softness of her voice, one distinct detail could not escape Zebbidy's powerful hearing: The woman had an accent, one that was unmistakably French. But before Zebbidy could decipher a word of her discussion her own breath caught.

From behind the woman, a child – about six or seven; no older than Joséphine – turned into the kitchen, his footsteps not making a sound on the gleaming white floor. A hand flew unconsciously to Zebbidy's mouth when she realized that the boy was familiar too. But she knew him on what she could almost consider a personal level.

He was thin, but not unhealthily so. He was pale, however; too pale for Zebbidy's liking. She thought, gazing down at his small frame, he looked pained, almost sickly. Too lost to realize she was staring, Zebbidy continued to take in everything about the child, from his brown chin-length hair, to his dark eyes that shined with worry she had seen before.

The pretty woman did not see him because her back was to him, she did not hear him because of his quiet footsteps, yet she knew he was there. He leaned against her heavily, the top of his head barely reaching her hips. The woman smiled at his presence, though she didn't look down. The small boy looked up at her with concerned eyes, but the phone maintained it's strong hold on to her attention.

". . if you don't believe me, you can take it up with my attorney," she said airily. "Who is my attorney? _I _am, and at the moment I am telling myself to tell _you _to think twice before you threaten to bring anything to court."

Zebbidy watched in sympathy as a shudder rippled through the child. At once the phone conversation stopped. The young woman looked down, her blue eyes growing wide with distress. Muttering a hasty "Excusez-moi" she abandoned whoever was on the line and kneeled down to examine the boy.

"Miel," she began sympathetically, crouching down to his level.

_She must slip into her native tongue whenever nervous_, Zebbidy observed.

"Jeffery, miel," the woman said again, "are you all right?"

The little boy shook his head but kept silent. _Sore throat? _Zebbidy wondered.

"What is it, sweetheart?" she asked, concern igniting in her eyes.

"Mama," he began meeting her worried gaze, "my stomach really hurts . . ." His hands pressed tightly to the pained area. Zebbidy felt her sympathy rise. Normally such feelings would have drawn out hatred in the man, but this wasn't the Sands she knew. _That's who he was_, she realized. She was finally seeing a part of Sands' past that didn't involve him being blinded or nearly killed in Alaska. This, she decided, was Sands before he had become a cold, untrusting individual.

His mother – who else could the woman be? – opened her mouth to speak, perhaps to offer some condolence, but whatever she had wanted to say was cut short by a painful gurgling coming from inside her son. She looked at him, her eyes large and severe.

"Did that hurt?"

He gave a small nod. His mother was silent for a moment; she looked like a million thoughts were running through her head at once. Finally, she asked him:

"How bad?"

"Bad," he whimpered, still doubled over with pain. He looked up at her, fear shinning brightly in his eyes as he pleaded with her for some kind of relief. Zebbidy felt her nose twitch as she watched in fascination as the young woman held out her arms to the boy. Her amazement grew when the child rushed into them, accepting the embrace without a second thought.

"I'm going to make a quick phone call," his mother told him, her voice calm and soothing. "Then, I'm taking you to the doctor."

At once, there were protests.

"No, not the doctor." He looked almost tearful with fright.

"Sweetie, I don't like him any more than you do, but I don't think you're suffering from anything common either." She stared at him, her face perfectly serious. "You know I wouldn't let the doctor do anything that I thought might harm you."

Reluctantly, he nodded.

"Okay," his mother said quietly. Without another word, she reached for the phone and dialed a number using only her thumb, keeping one arm wrapped securely around her son's tiny waist.

"Allô?" (Hello?) she said at last once the ringing had finally stopped. "Bernard? Je cherche Célina, est elle là?" (Bernard? I'm looking for Célina, is she there?)

She paused, absentmindedly drumming her fingers along the edge of the phone as she listened.

"Célina?" she said after a moment. "J'ai besoin de vous pour venir et soigner Lynné pendant quelque temps." (I need you to come over and look after Lynné for a while.)

As a muffled response came through the earpiece, Zebbidy saw Sands drop his head onto his mother's shoulder, his eyes growing heavy with exhaustion.

"C'est Jeffery," (It's Jeffery,) his mother explained into the phone. "Il se plaint d'une douleur dans son estomac . . . Non," (He's complaining of a pain in his stomach . . . No,) she said after a moment, "il a été malade auparavant. Je crois que c'est différent." (he's been sick before. I think this is different.)

She sighed in frustration.

"Célina, je ne réagis pas de façon excessive. Je le prends au docteur, la fin d'histoire." (Célina, I am _not _overreacting. I'm taking him to the doctor, end of story.)

Sands looked up at her, sensing that the conversation wasn't going to end as quickly as he had hoped. He had to remind her of her original intentions.

"Mama . . ." He closed his eyes tightly, wincing slightly.

Maternal instinct kicking in, his mother came to her senses and ended the argument at once.

"Je dois aller," (I have to go,) she said, casting a worried glance at her son. "Venez-vous ou non? (Are you coming or not?)

"Bon," she said after a moment. "Lynnie est dans sa chambre à coucher. Je devrais seulement être quelques heures. Avec optimisme ce n'est rien de sérieux. Au revoir" (Lynnie is in her bedroom. I should only be a few hours. Hopefully it's nothing serious. 'Bye.)

Her call finished, she turned to her son and gave him a long stare. Finally, she asked him if he thought she should tell his father. He shook his head.

"He won't care."

Begrudgingly, his mother agreed.

"You're probably right," she muttered darkly, her lips twitching in irritation. "All right," she said after a moment. Carefully she snaked both of her arms around his torso and lifted him off of the ground effortlessly.

Zebbidy would have followed them as they made their departure had the world not suddenly grown so dark. All light had been destroyed save for the tiles of the immaculate floor. They glowed on endlessly like magnificent white lights that sparked and dazzled in the night sky. They grew to enormous proportions, blocking out everything and blinding her with their brilliance.

Yet at the same time, it was the exact opposite of being blind. The blind saw only darkness, whereas Zebbidy saw nothing but light. Did that mean anything? she wondered as the familiar pulling sensation took a hold of her. Anything at all? She thought so, but then again, she could have been delusional. And delusions were known to make a person blind.

* * *

The room came slowly into focus. The morning rays of sunlight broke through the cracks in her eyelids but that was not what brought Zebbidy to her senses. It was a strange moaning, pained with torment, that did it. 

Alert at once, Zebbidy's eyes snapped open and she searched frantically for the source of the noise. It didn't take her long to find it. Beside her lay Sands, groping with an outstretched arm, his long fingers brushing over the folds in the sheets as he searched for something he couldn't find.

There, in the center of her chest, was that pang again, a feeling a deep sadness that her heart longed to express, but Zebbidy knew better. She had given up her original faith long ago, but now Zebbidy found that – despite everything: her extraordinary senses, her herbs, her teas, her intuition – all she could do was take Sands' wandering hand in hers, press it close to her heart, and pray.

* * *

Coughing up a mouthful of dust, Sands let his head sink down onto the rough pavement below him. It was difficult to breathe. Part of him was insisting that he take in as much air as he possibly could, and through his mouth, too. A person took in more air through their mouth. Yet his common sense knew that would be a stupid move, considering how much dust had been kicked up. Unless he wanted to choke to death, Common Sense informed him, he would do well to breathe through his nose. 

There was noise in the distance, gunshots from the chaos that raged all around him. The childishly selfish part of his brain sulked. It had wanted to see that chaos, but now it was being deprived of the mayhem it felt it deserved. It shouldn't be complaining, his determined side said. It saw that havoc was in everyone's future and Sands knew that his determined side wanted disorder and violence as much as his selfish side. And Determined was the side that always got what it wanted.

_All I have to do is wait for The Bitch to show up. Then everyone'll shut their traps and I can finally sleep._

_**That's not a good idea, you know, **_the voice informed him smartly. **_You never know what might happen if you fall asleep._**

_It'll be just like being blind only I'll be less aware of my surroundings, _he told it. Exhausted, he turned his head to the side, hoping to find a more adequate position. If he was going to bleed to death before The Bitch got there, he at least wanted to be comfortable. The thought that dirt might be kicked up into his empty eye sockets by an ongoing wind occurred to him, but the gaping holes hurt like hell anyway, how bad would a bit of dust be?

Counting the seconds as they passed, he waited. For what, he wasn't sure. He certainly hoped he was keeping himself awake for Ajedrez and not Death. Death was more than welcome, but he wanted to send Ajedrez to her doom first.

_Still breathing?_

_**Yes, still breathing, **_the voice sighed in disdain.

Just when he was beginning to wonder if he should start up a round of 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall, he heard, above the bullets and the screams and the explosions, the distinct sound of footsteps echoing on the concrete.

_Bingo._

"Oh my gods . . ."

_That's . . . not Ajedrez . . ._

_**No shit, Sherlock, **_the voice muttered, annoyed.

"Poor thing . . . What happened to you?"

Someone knelt down next to him, placing a gentle hand on his uninjured shoulder. Sands didn't flinch away, though he normally would have no matter how painful his injuries were. He knew the woman kneeling beside him was not Ajedrez. Her presence was so sudden he never even expected to see her. _Metaphorically speaking_, Sands thought bitterly.

"Hold still," she ordered softly. Carefully, she helped him into a sitting position, making sure not to jostle his battered body too much. She leaned forward and kissed him twice, each time just above each eye. Her task complete, she pulled away from him, a knowing smile spreading across her face.

Sands blinked. Staring back at him was the wan face of Zebbidy Samhain, her green eyes bright with triumph. She smiled at him and he felt the corners of his mouth twitch, but a sudden movement in the distance made his entire body go numb.

She was clothed all in black – she always was whenever she visited him in his sleep. Holsters draped across each shapely hip and in her perfectly manicured hand she carried a sawed off pistol, swinging the firearm casually as she walked down the dusty street. She stopped when she saw them, looked him straight in the eye (she didn't seem surprised by that at all), and smiled. It was not a nice smile.

Zebbidy stared at him curiously. She cocked an eyebrow and opened her mouth to speak but Sands silenced her with a quick wave of the hand. He stared over her shoulder, his eyes fixed on the buxom figure behind her. His fingers splayed, he reached back, feeling for his guns.

They were gone.

Uttering a silent curse, Sands' brows narrowed fiercely, his dark eyes never leaving Ajedrez honey brown ones. Quickly, his mind began to calculate, searching for an answer, a scapegoat, anything he could use that would get both he and Zebbidy out of there as safely as possible. He thought too slowly. Before he could do anything, Ajedrez had her gun out and pointed. She lined herself up perfectly, and fired.

He tried to wrench her down, but he was too late. Before Sands could react, Ajedrez had implanted a bullet in Zebbidy's back. Instead of crying out or even wincing, Zebbidy's eyes widened, her expression became one of stunned shock and she uttered a soft "Oh!" of surprise as led dug into her spine.

Sands watched with growing panic as Zebbidy's eyes took on an unhealthy glaze. In a matter of seconds they were unfocused and she began to fall. Her body slumped and she fell into him, the crook of his shoulder becoming a resting-place for her head.

"Sands . . ." she murmured, her voice nothing more than a husky whisper. Her lashes fluttered as she struggled to keep a grasp on consciousness. "You can still finish her . . ." Her hand grasped his tightly. "There's still time . . ."

_Time before what?? _he wondered frantically.

"Before . . ." Zebbidy's breath caught and her voice faltered. She cringed, her face contorted in pain as a shudder rocked her slender body. Still, she managed to finish. "Before . . . you wake up . . ."

She collapsed, a wilted flower amid the street of dead, into his arms, her green eyes still shining brightly. Sands looked to Ajedrez, his face burning with pure hatred. She stood over him, feeling a great satisfaction at the thought of taking an innocent life. But her smug look faded the moment Sands met her eyes. Her eyes widened and she took a step back as he produced a pistol out of thin air, curled his index finger around the cold trigger, and fired.

* * *

Beige filled his eyes as he slowly entered the realm of the waking. There was nothing but beige at first and Sands began to wonder if this was still a twisted dream, but then everything began to take on a shape. A small reddish-brown table grew from pale yellow walls; two matching chairs sprung out of nowhere and came to rest beside it. Tiny jars of dried leaves and bottles of strange oils suddenly appeared upon the table, their crystal surfaces glistening in the morning sun. 

To his left was a dresser and vanity mirror, though its pristine condition told him it had seen little use. To the right was the small table – a vast window with sheer curtains stood behind that – and to the left of the headboard stood a door that lead to the bathroom.

Sands looked down to see an ocean of golden yellow satin covering his legs. White silk sheets felt heavenly underneath his body, as did the soft mattress that supported him. The bed was spacious, enormous – mammoth even with a wrought iron foot and headboard. His eyes swept over the yellow paneled walls and took him skyward toward the ceiling. There, hanging above him like a extravagant mobile was a ring of gold fabric, the same material the bedspread was made of. It was a canopy, he realized, though not the kind one would normally think of. This hung over the head of the bed in a ring; fabric spilled from all around the hovering circle, tumbling down over the headboard elegantly.

At the bottom of the bed – he must have missed it in his disbelief – was a sheet of dark green satin draped delicately over the baseboard. And beside him, yet another factor he had overlooked, lay the sleeping form of a woman in a plain white slip. Zebbidy must have discarded her beautiful gown after realizing how foolish it would be if she continued to wear it.

Carefully sliding back down onto the bed, still not quite sure if he was dreaming or not, Sands gazed up at the ceiling. He folded his hands behind his head, lost in thought.

_How do I know this is real? _he wondered mildly.

**_Well, what do they always say to do to check if you're dreaming? _**the voice chided in measured tones. It sounded like it was talking to a two-year-old. Sands frowned in annoyance, but complied.

"Ow, damnit . . ." he muttered darkly, rubbing the spot on his arm where he had pinched himself.

_Okay, we know I'm awake._

_**You're awake, **_the voice agreed.

_And I can see again._

_**Yes, you can.**_

He paused, thinking this over. Finally, he shrugged nonchalantly and grinned in triumph.

_Yeehaw._

The voice sighed in distaste but made no further comment. Still grinning broadly, Sands turned over on his side to face Zebbidy. He stopped when he saw her, taking in her delicate features carefully, not wanting to throw the moment of silence away. She was still asleep; that was good. There were no fractures in her deep, even breathing. Sands gave himself a mental shake when he noticed that he had matched his breathing to hers. But instead of turning away like he had intended to do, he found himself staring at her again, trying to figure something out by watching her sleeping form. Zebbidy looked content, almost happy. A small smile played on her lips while she slept. Sands wondered what the cause of it was, but he refused to bother himself with it.

He turned over on his back and resumed his observation of the fascinating bedroom ceiling. Beside him, Zebbidy's smile stayed in place and although his thinking was deep, it took Sands nearly fifteen minutes to realize that he too was smiling.

* * *

_That last line has been in my head for so long . . . 9.6;;;; It's such a relief to finally have it written down. And that childhood flashback just sort of came out of nowhere. Seriously, I never planned on that one. It just . . . happened. But I_ do _plan on apologizing for the lateness of this chapter. :(_ _Lotsa stuff's been happening lately. 'Tis the season for busy schedules, after all._

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**Dawnie-7: **Yeah, she's still alive, unfortunately. I didn't want to bring her back, but once again my love of plot, suspense, and chaos gets the better of me. :D;

**vanillafluffy: **XD! You're right. Liam's gotta lose something. Actually, in the original plot line, Lyn was suppose to get revenge on him by, um . . . relieving him of one of his eyes. While the image of Liam wearing an eyepatch is _very _appealing, I didn't care for the idea after thinking it through, so I nixed it. He still gets his comeuppance, however, though not through castration. Liam needs his manhood whenever Lyn is feeling bored, apparently.

**Lynx Ryder: **Yes, a good change has definitely occurred between Sands and Zeb. Those two are definitely learning to respect one another and Zebbidy already trusts Sands for the most part. All he needs to do is learn to trust her. Don't condemn Liam just yet. Remember all of the guilt and remorse he's feeling and think of that the next time you wanna send him to hell. There's a reason for it. ;D He lost his faith in the agency the day they left Lyn for dead in Mexico. o.o; I think I mentioned that earlier . . . could just be my memory failing me again -.9 And it's okay if you laughed a bit at those lines. I was aiming for that, actually :) And any reason you can find to watch OUaTiM is a good one. I know I'm always looking for one ;D

**zigzag: **For once Sands was right to feel paranoid it seems :( He can't be too paranoid, though, cuz he's still gotta learn to trust Zeb. And I'm glad you mention the lack of Sands in the last chapter. I noticed only after I posted that he was absent for most of it, so I hope this chapter makes up for it :)

**fanfiction fanatic: **Well, I try to be :) And Ajedrez totally deserved what happened to her. I'd hope that no one would disagree with that. u.u

**morph: **lol, somehow seeing the evil vileness in worse shape than the people she hurt makes me feel good as well. Eh. Probably cuz she deserved it. And, yep, Liam's feeling regret. He's been feeling it for a while now. And I'm glad you mentioned Josey. Reminded me that she's got a scene coming up in the next chapter :) I noticed a while ago that I never mentioned El until that last chapter. Like, ever. O.o And you're right, they are connected in a way because if El hadn't saved the President, Sands wouldn't've lost his eyes. I knew that, but never went anywhere with it. It's always been about Sands beating himself up for trusting Ajedrez. Little did he know he could've been blaming El, huh? Well, I know that if I write a third Mexico story I've already decided to include El Mariachi. I just don't have any real _plot _yet. Other than that, things look all right.

**Invader Nicole: **Yay! You're computer's fixed at last! And Liam's got a reason for betraying Lyn, of course, as I've said before. u.u What can I say? I like keeping people in suspense. Spooky coincidence that you thought about writing an Ajedrez-resurrection fic. o.o Creepy. Once again, glad your computer's finally fixed! Is this the part where the heavenly choir starts singing hallelujah? ;D

o


	40. There’s a Bright Side to Everything

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Forty: **There's a Bright Side to Everything

Forty chapters . . . . 9.9 e.e x.X . . . . .Yeah. That pretty much sums things up. In other news, in my English lit. class we're reading the King Arthur stories, which reminds me that I have a test on that tomorrow, but other than that . . . while reading the one story (_The Tale of Sir Gareth_) I could not help but be reminded of _this _story. Or rather, two of the characters in it: The charming pair (okay, they're not so charming at the moment) of Liam and Lynné. In the story, a kitchen worker named Beaumains is escorting a lovely maiden (who refuses to tell him her name) on a quest to rescue her sister who is being imprisoned by the Red Knight of the Red Lands. During their journey the maiden is _really _nasty to her escort. I mean severely harsh. She continues to belittle him even though he defeats and wins the alliance of three supposedly 'all powerful' knights. Even though she is cruel to him, Beaumains is still courteous to the maiden. Thing is, he's really a nobleman named Sir Gareth. It's neat, though, cuz even before the maiden learns of this, she confides to Sir Gareth that, despite her harsh words, he is still kind to her and she respects him for that. It reminded me of Lyn and Liam in a way. But what's really creepy is the fact that, when we finally do learn the maiden's name, it's Lady Lynet. Now, practically every country has their own King Arthur tale, but one of the first stories was written in France. So, really, if you want to pronounce the maiden's name correctly, it wouldn't be 'Lin-eht,' it would be 'Lin-ae' as in _Lynné_. Isn't that creepy? I thought it was, but that's just me.

* * *

**"**Cette conversation est finie." (This conversation is over.) 

Joséphine sprung from the bed, her dark eyes suddenly lit with urgency. She had been at one of the mansions for nearly eight hours and only now her grandfather decided to visit her. She knew this could not be right – relatives didn't wait eight hours before checking to see if a family member was safe – but did not waste her time dwelling on the fact.

"Grand- père, non!"

"Joséphine," her grandfather warned, "nous avons été à travers cela." (we have been through this.)

"Dites-moi juste que vous avez fait à Mademoiselle!!" (Just tell me what you have done to Mademoiselle!)

"L'inquiétude pas de l'américain," (Worry not about the American,) he informed her sharply, his cold eyes narrowing in fury that Joséphine could not see. "Elle était seulement une menace mineure à la famille –" (She was only a minor threat to the family – )

"Était!?" (Was!?) Joséphine gaped at him, her small hands clawing at her mouth in horror. "Elle est morte . . . ?" (She's dead . . ?)

"Elle est autant que vous sachiez," (She is as far as you are concerned,) her grandfather said shortly. He adjusted the collar of his shirt importantly, though the action was really a façade to mask how uncomfortable he was really feeling. In the time she was gone, his youngest granddaughter had grown close to the American agents. Disturbingly close. Inside, Édouard Poisson shuddered to think of what that Sands woman had been telling his little granddaughter. What tales had been fed to her from the mouths of the CIA agents? Who knew just how corrupted Joséphine had become during the time of her kidnapping? Édouard could only begin to wonder.

"Mais je suis concerné!" (But I am concerned!) Joséphine protested, her voice cracking in desperation. "Grand-père, s'il vou –" (Grandfather, please –)

But Édouard had had enough.

"Vous resterez dans cette pièce –" (You will stay in this room –)

"Mais Grand-père –"

"— et je ne veux pas entendre un autre mot de protestation!" (– and I do not want to hear another word of protest!)

There was a deafening slam and then, silence. Joséphine sank to the floor, her dark eyes shimmering in defeat. Her legs seemed to have disappeared beneath her. A tiny click sounded from her bedroom door. The sound was quiet, yet it still managed to fill the entire room. Joséphine held back a small gasp when she heard it. For the first time she was experiencing the true disadvantage of her handicap.

She couldn't see . . .

She was blind . . .

But she didn't need her sight to know when she was trapped.

**

* * *

**

A sharp rapping was what roused Sands from his doze. It was coming from the living room if his ears weren't deceiving him. He sighed, annoyed at the rude awakening but relieved as well. He sight was still intact.

The knocking hadn't disturbed Zebbidy in the least. The young woman slept on, looking as peaceful as she had before he had fallen asleep. He didn't want to wake her, after all, it was likely that she had gotten less sleep than he had over the past four days. But that knocking was driving him crazy. It could have just been room service, but Sands didn't think so. He would go and check it out, but he wanted his guns first and for that he needed to wake Zebbidy.

He reached out and shook her carefully.

"Zeb . . . Hey, Zeb . . . C'mon, time to get up . . ."

Zebbidy woke slowly, obviously still worn out from caring for him, but Sands paid no attention to that. Right now, all she needed to do was tell him where she had stashed his firearms, then she could sleep the day away for all he cared.

"What's wrong?" Zebbidy asked, arching an eyebrow curiously.

"Someone's knocking," he replied as he gazed off in the direction of the noise. "Where'd you put my guns?"

"Top dresser drawer." She shrugged, watching Sands as he rose from the bed and headed toward the piece of furniture. "I thought they should be close but not out in the open – be careful!" she warned when Sands winced as a stream of fiery pain swelled in his chest. His torment was thankfully short-lived, however, and he waved her concern away in a matter of seconds. He pulled the first drawer open and retrieved a pair of pistols, tossing one to Zebbidy. He said nothing; he didn't need to. Looking into his eyes was all Zebbidy needed to know that he was asking something of her: If things got ugly, she was expected to back him up.

_As if I haven't done enough for him already, _she thought sarcastically, although she knew she had helped Sands as much as she had because her heart would not have allowed her to let him die. Looking up at Sands, she gave him her answer. A small nod was sufficient enough. She would help him if things went awry.

Without another word, Sands began to leave.

"Does this mean you can see again?" The question had slipped out of Zebbidy's mouth, curiosity getting the better of her. But she didn't feel any unease for asking. If anything, she felt entitled to the question.

"What d'you think, sugar-butt?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow sardonically.

Zebbidy rolled her eyes as Sands disappeared from view, but she couldn't suppress a smile when she heard his unspoken thoughts:

_I owe her one for that. Thanks, Zeb._

She heard no more after Sands had departed. Then, there was a confused "What the _hell_?" which was quickly followed by the sound of a door opening. After that, Zebbidy's concern and bewilderment died with Sands' sudden outcry of:

"_Fusco_??"

* * *

"_Always look on the bright side of life . . ._" Lynné sung under her breath. She shuffled her feet in time with the music that was playing through her head. Her hands were still being bound behind her or else she would have been drumming her fingers instead of tapping her feet, but whatever. She worked with what she had. 

**_Yeah, how're you doin' with that, by the way?_**

_I'm working on it, _she told the voice with mild defense.

"_Some things in life are bad  
They can really make you mad  
Other things just make you swear and curse.  
When you're chewing on life's gristle  
Don't grumble, give a whistle  
And this'll help things turn out for the best_..."

Behind her, her hands slipped over the cold metal cuffs as she tried to escape them. What was ruining everything was the chair. Fucking sad excuse for furniture . . . If they had simply handcuffed her and left it at that, she could be sipping a daiquiri at Café Runtz by now.

"_And always look on the bright side of life_...  
_Always look on the right side of life_..."

But no. Lynné was not enjoying her drink at the moment and it was all because of a chair. It was straining her wrists, pushing against them to the point where she could barely move them. That made things a bit more difficult. Had the chair not been there at all, she could have easily swung her hands under her legs and brought them up to her chest. Getting the cuffs off would be a snap then. And even if she _couldn't _remove them, she'd still be a lot more comfortable than she was now. Fucking chair. Oh well. Life wasn't always fair, as she was told at least once a week.

"_If life seems jolly rotten  
There's something you've forgotten  
And that's to laugh and smile and dance and sing.  
When you're feeling in the dumps  
Don't be silly chumps  
Just purse your lips and whistle - that's the thing_."

**_Who came up with that damn quote? _**the voice wanted to know.

_Don't look at me. Haven't got a clue._

"_And_..._always look on the bright side of life_...  
_Always look on the light side of life_..."

_**With all of the stupid facts you have stored up, you don't know who first started saying 'Life isn't always fair?' **_The voice was disgusted and it showed. Lyn rolled her eyes and continued to sing.

"_For life is quite absurd  
And death's the final word  
You must always face the curtain with a bow.  
Forget about your sin - give the audience a grin  
Enjoy it - it's your last chance anyhow._"

"_So always look on the bright side of death  
Just before you draw your terminal breath._"

She could dislocate her thumb. Then she'd be able to get the cuffs off for sure. But . . . no, that wouldn't work. She didn't know how to dislocate her thumb. Well . . . she knew _how_... she just wasn't sure if she wanted to risk it. It would be the first time she had done it, after all.

_And if I do it wrong, I could be in a whole shitload of trouble. Hell, I could lose the use of my thumb for good._

_**You might not.**_

_But I _might. _There's a fifty- percent chance that I'll get the cuffs off, and a fifty- percent chance I'll be a cripple for the rest of my life. Now, which would you prefer?_

"_Life's a piece of shit  
When you look at it  
Life's a laugh and death's a joke, it's true.  
You'll see it's all a show  
Keep 'em laughing as you go  
Just remember that the last laugh is on you_."

**_Okay, okay, you've got a point, _**the voice allowed begrudgingly. **_But I still think you're a pussy for not _trying _it._**

_Dually noted._

"_And always look on the bright side of life_...  
_Always look on the right side of life_..."

Slowly, the door in front of her began to creek open. Lynné watched it with mild interest. She had seen many doors open in her lifetime. There wasn't anything really special about this one, so she didn't devote much of her attention to it.

"_And always look on the bright side of life_...  
_Always look on the bright side of life_..."

_**Who d'you think it is?** _the voice asked curiously.

_Probably some goon coming to 'punish me.' I've been so _bad _after all._

_**You gonna give into them?**_

_Fuck no, why would I?_

_**Just wondering.**_

"_I mean - what have you got to lose?  
You know, you come from nothing - you're going back to nothing.  
What have you lost? Nothing!  
Always look on the right side of life_..."

"Mademoiselle Sands," a deep voice began, "I am Alphonse Poisson. Perhaps you have heard of me?"

She shrugged her shoulders as much as the accursed chair would allow.

"You're name may have come up while I was sifting through some files, yeah. Other than the fact that you're Édouard's son, we never considered you someone of great importance."

Alphonse smoothed his thin moustache, his hooked nose wrinkling into a frustrated sneer. Lynné grinned calmly from her seat.

"You know so little." He spat bitterly at her feet. "In due time, mademoiselle, you will learn just how valuable I am to my father." He held up his index finger and Lynné saw a thick, golden ring with a sapphire the size of a robin's egg sparkle in the light of the single bulb.

"One hour," Alphonse continued, "with my cousin, Gaston . . . and we shall see if your mind chances."

Again, Lyn shrugged, determined not to show any emotion towards this news at all. Her face, as if carved out of stone, was calm and careless. Looking into Alphonse's murky eyes she offered one word to him:

"Whatever."

**

* * *

**

_I apologize for this being a day late. Busy schedules and colds tend to eat away at my time. Plus I finally got to see _Finding Neverland _yesterday. It was excellent! And whoever invented sneak previews has my undying and everlasting thanks cuz without that, I'd never have been able to see it. :) Plus, after I saw FN I got to watch _Collateral _cuz it's out on DVD now for anyone who didn't know :) And I just noticed something; don't know how I could've forgotten it. After Vincent kills his first person, the cab driver, Max, panics and starts to hyperventilate almost. Seeing this, Vincent says something like "Deep breathing, all right? Breathe, breathe. Just keep breathing." Does that _not _sound a little like the _Laughing Wild _line Lynné's always quoting? Strange that I didn't make a note of that the first time I saw the movie. Well, at the time I hadn't planned on making Lyn and Vincentformer lovers either_. ;D

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**vanillafluffy: **Good! I was kinda worried about that line not fitting the scene very well, but in the end I couldn't pass it up :) Hmm . . . I'm not sure about the left nut, but you're right. There does seem to be a trend with removing it as far as torture goes. Funny how Liam doesn't get a say in any of this :D

**Dawnie-7: **Yes, I have a horribly dark mind when it comes to describing people I can't stand, namely Cat. -.e I think it was the episode of South Park where they made fun of the big-nosed skank (which was frickin' _hilarious_) that got me thinking about it. And I thought 'Yeehaw' was very fitting, glad you agree :)

**Lynx Ryder: **lol, you can _always _find more ways to despise Cat and I won't blame you in the least if you do. u.u It's so sweet that you're on Lyn's side rather than Liam's. It's funny, though. While Liam _did _learn a lot while staying with Lyn in Mexico, his experience really is_ nothing _compared to Sands and Lyn's. :D You have no idea (or maybe you do) how reassuring it is to hear that the flashback had such an affect. For once I wasn't worried about a scene, but there's always that anxious feeling, I think, cuz you never know how stuff's gonna be received. 'It's like they are completely separate and yet hopelessly entwined.' That sums up Sands and his voice just perfectly :D Worry not, I have no intentions of Ajedrez killing off Zeb. Things could always change, of course, but I really doubt they will. Knew I could count on you to notice the descriptions :D I noticed a while ago that, while _I _know how each room and scene is supposed to look, the readers don't. And while I like to get people to use their imaginations, I have to give _some _kind of outlet for them to plug their brains into. That's sort of a deep way of saying I like describing things :) Ah, opportune moments . . . they are highly useful when they finally decide to occur -.e

**zigzag: **I can definitely feel for ya. There are so many times when I have wanted to hug younger-Sands. And older-Sands, too, come to think of it. But they're not the type who're willing to allow that, sadly :( Well, fortunately, Miss Zeb's working on changing that. Oooh, and thank you for recommending music! God knows I love it; will definitely have to download those songs. And it's nice to know that I'm not the only one who listens to a song and thinks of Sands. ;D

**morph: **Hmm . . . I'm not sure what either of them have on their Christmas lists to tell ya the truth. Although I'm sure if you just gave Sands something alcoholic he wouldn't be disappointed :) And, no, Zeb doesn't have any knowledge of El as of yet, although if there is a third installment containing El she will more than likely receive an image of him :) I was actually thinking of the scene were Sands impersonated the priest for a vision but their first meeting is also good. It's funny how they're both the main characters in OUaTiM and yet they only met face to face twice and then once on the phone.

**Jen: **lol, yeah, I knew 'poisson' meant 'fish.' Since the Internet was unhelpful in my search for French last names, I decided to go for words I already knew. Oddly, poisson was the only word that came up at the time. I figured it'd be kinda funny to have everyone making this big deal about a mob family and then have said family's name mean fish. (shrug) But that's just me. Thanks for reviewing! :D

**fanfiction fanatic: **Yeah, a 'B' would fit in pretty well, but anyway . . . I don't mind late reviews if you don't mind late chapters. It all works out, if you think about it. Everything is balanced. ;D

_One quick author's note before I remove myself from your presence. This is actually a rather funny story that happened quite a while ago but I have to tell it in order for another story to make sense. Get it? Okay. About a month ago, a bunch of my friends, my dad, and I were all watching the movie _From Hell. _It was the part where Mary Kelly and Inspector Alberline went to visit Anne in the sanitarium _. . .

Anne: (on TV) He's a prince . . . and I'm a queen . . . I'm a queen, I'm a queen . . .

Sid's Dad: Psh.

Sidney: What?

Dad: _She's _not the queen.

Sidney: What're you talking about? O.o?

Dad: 9.9 She's _not _the queen. It's Johnny Depp. _Johnny Depp_ is the queen. Just look at the way he acted in _Pirates of the Caribbean, _sashaying around like a _drag queen _for Christ's sake!

Everyone: XD

_So now, whenever we're in public and want to talk about Mr. Depp while avoiding raving fangirls, my friends and I always refer to Mr. Depp as simply 'The Queen.' :D;; Now, moving on, tonight we put up the Christmas tree in my household . . ._

Sid's Mom, Jo-Jo: (while hanging an ornament) Oh, I just love my little snowman. He's so sweet! (beams at the little figure with unfathomabe adoration) 8D!!!

Sidney: (inspects the snowman ornament) -.e That snowman is _flaming_! :-o

Jo-Jo: What!?

Sid's Sister Tyia: O-O! Oh my God! She's right! Look at it's little purple scarf, at it's little red vest, and . . . that hat's a beret. That's _totally _a beret. (scrutinizes the little snowman ornament a bit more) -.9 Yep. He's flaming. And that little deer that's standing next to him is lookin' _miiiighty _suspicious right now.

Sidney: This is like . . . the _snowman _equivalent of Johnny Depp. :-O

Jo-Jo: (now she's _really _confused and unhappy that we're dissing her snowman) _What_??

Sidney: Tell her, Dad.

Dad: (sitting on the couch, not paying attention) -.- O.o? (glances over at Christmas tree for a beat) . . . . . Yep. He's a queen. But he's not _The _Queen. u-u

_And so, in conclusion . . . . I have the snowman version of Johnny Depp hanging on my Christmas tree. Oh, and how'd everybody like my _Monty Python's Life of Brian _reference? For some reason, I can picture Lyn singing that song a little _too _well. But maybe that's me._ :D;

_o_


	41. Funny Honey

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Forty-One: **Funny Honey

Well, it looks as though I won't be getting this done before the New Year hits. Oh well. It's not my fault this thing's so darn long. It's _partially _my fault, yes, but blame can also be placed on Sands for being so stubborn and callous, same thing goes for Lyn and pretty much everyone else cuz they all have several issues to be dealt with. But, really, it all comes down to me and my love of characterization, description, and plot. What can I say, I like plot. Plot is good with toast ;D But before I launch into this chapter, I would like to note that this title is from the musical _Chicago _and that – and I believe I mentioned this earlier – I think it suits Lyn and Liam's past and current relationship very well. u.u

* * *

_Look there he goes.  
Isn't he dreamy?  
Monsieur Gaston,  
Oh he's so cute!_

_Geh . . . hardly . . . _Lynné spat, scrutinizing her the hulking brut before her. He seemed to be made of nothing but muscle, all – she estimated – two hundred and fifty-eight pounds of him. She saw the pulsing of his well-toned arms beneath the expensive charcoal gray suit he wore, threatening to tear the plum colored shirt underneath the suit. His greasy hair glistened from the pomade he had used to slick it back. Utterly revolted, Lynné fought the urge to wrinkle her nose as Gaston leered at her, showing a single golden spot on his upper row of teeth.

**_Christ, all he needs is a big, feathered hat and a cane and he's all set. Aside from that, he's totally pimin', baby._**

Lynné had to hand it to the voice. When it was right, it was right.

**

* * *

**

"Liam, what on Earth –" Zebbidy was abruptly cut off when the young man cried out,

"Lynné's been kidnapped!"

His face was taunt with fear and urgency. Several strands of his dark blonde hair had escaped the secure ponytail that normally held them back, his once crisp powder blue shirt was wrinkled and half unbuttoned. In the months she had spent with him, Zebbidy had never known neat-freak Liam to look so disheveled. It was so unlike him to allow himself to be seen in such an unkempt state, and that troubled her.

"Easy, boy," Sands told him calmly, taking care as he lowered himself onto the couch. "When you say kidnapped, I assume you mean by the Poissons?"

Liam nodded vigorously.

"I was there when they grabbed her."

"Grabbed her," Sands repeated, observing the other agent over steepled fingers.

"_Yes_," Liam stressed, looking grave. "We were at the house, they jumped me, drugged Lynné, grabbed Joséphine –"

"They have Joséphine?" Zebbidy clasped a hand over her mouth in horror. Instantly her mind became flooded with unused sympathy. And now it would be expressed for the little girl. Zebbidy knew of Joséphine's loathing for Édouard and his family, and she couldn't blame her in the least. Poisson was a despicable tyrant, one who was incapable of love in any shape or form. He had a family because he would not trust anyone else to continue his business. He made sure all of his relatives (and especially his heirs) lived comfortable lifestyles with extravagant homes, beautiful clothes, and more money than they knew what to do with. But he also disciplined his children, making sure they didn't become _too _spoiled and take all of their possessions for granted by taking several of said items away. For good, sometimes. Her long fingers recoiled into her palms, reducing her hands into tightly clenched fists. She twitched her nose, ashamed that she had that kind of knowledge about Édouard Poisson.

"And you're _absolutely _positive it was Poisson?" Sands was saying, his voice still calm, almost disbelieving.

"Who else could it be!?" Liam demanded to know, suddenly livid, his face lit with anger and frustration.

"How did you get away?"

Liam started, caught off guard. From the bedroom doorway, Zebbidy watched him closely through carefully calculating eyes.

"They didn't want me," Liam began slowly. "I mean, when the thugs showed up at the house – that's where we went after Poisson's party – and then they took a hold of Lynné and Joséphine, but they let me go."

"Why?" The way he said it, Sands made the word sound more like a statement than a question.

Liam shrugged, as if he was still didn't know exactly why he hadn't been taken to Poisson's mansion to be tortured like his partner, but he did have an answer to the question.

"They said they needed someone to get the word out. The – they . . . they needed someone to . . . to tell you, so . . . y'know . . . you'd . . . go and get her?"

He looked helplessly at Zebbidy as Sands stared intently at the carpet. She shrugged as if to say 'You gave it your best shot' and let her hands fall limply at her sides.

With a nervous clearing of his throat, Liam asked the question:

"So, uh . . . what happened to you guys?"

Quickly, Zebbidy filled him in on what had been going on between her and Sands, taking extra precaution to tell him only the major details and nothing unnecessary like Sands' nightmares and the temporary blindness.

Thinking of the agent made her automatically focus her gaze on him. Deep in thought, his brows narrowed in contemplation, he was silent, brooding, lost in his own thoughts and completely unaware of the two people who were casting worried glances in his direction. Shirtless, too, Zebbidy couldn't help but note. In the bright light of the living room, she noticed for the first time how many scars the agent bore.

She had seen the one on his left arm when she had tended to his shoulder, as well as the number of designs he had on the same limb. But only now did she see the series of identical marks along the inside of his arm; they almost looked like he had made them himself.

There was another scar on his right side, just below the gash she had been tending to for the past four days. There was another one above and to the left of the other wound she had stitched up. Her attention was snagged momentarily by the tattoo over his heart. That one had caught her eye before, she remembered, and she still wanted to know if it held any meaning to him, but once again she her attention was snared by something else.

A thin scar, at least three inches long, ran along his abdomen, just below his ribcage. She wondered where all of the marks had come from, but that one was most peculiar. Zebbidy tilted her head to one side, barely aware that sputtered explanations were still flying from Liam's mouth.

"You're gonna help her, right? You're not just . . . you're not going to leave her there, are you? She . . . you don't know what they could be doing –"

"I know exactly what they could be doing to her, Fusco," Sands interrupted blandly, still staring coldly at the floor. "So I don't need you to give me all the juicy details, thank you very much."

"But," Liam began, looking desperate, "you're going to get her back, aren't you –"

"It sounds as though you think I'm some . . . all-knowing, all-powerful, unstoppable being, Fusco." Sands arched an eyebrow as he leaned back against the couch cushions, casually crossing his arms over his chest. "And you should know by now that that's just not true."

Dumbfounded, Liam shot another worried glance at Zebbidy, clearly unsure of what to say.

"To answer your question, Fusco," Sands began, carefully leaving the couch, "yes. I _am _going to lend my hand in retrieving my darling little sister, but first thing's first."

He stood directly in front of Liam, now. Despite the younger agent's obvious advantages (Liam was taller, stronger, and, of course, uninjured) Sands was immune to any intimidation that could have been expressed. He stared up at him, his face hard enough to have been an image on a headstone. Quite calmly, he opened his mouth, and began to list his orders.

"Before we do anything, I need you to make yourself useful by hurrying off . . . and buying Zeb some clothes. _Nice _clothes, Fusco. Nothing too expensive, but nothing from Wal-Mart either."

Before Liam could say that he didn't think there _were _any Wal-Marts in France, Sands continued on, spitting out rapid-fire errands one by one.

"You'll need to find something for me, too. Now, I don't particularly _care _what you get me, just as long as I don't end up looking like Richard Simmons. Once that's done, I want you to pick u the essentials."

"Essentials?" Liam repeated, confused.

With a sigh, Sands rolled his eyes and explained.

"_Smokes_, Fusco. I could really go for some cigs right about now. A weeks deprivation's really taken its toll on me as you can plainly see." He spread his arms out so Liam could see his injuries more clearly. A thin smile playing on his lips, Sands continued, "After that, you're going to report back here and take us to the house."

"And then you'll do something about Poisson?"

"Yes, and then I'll do something about Poisson," Sands sighed with another roll of his eyes. "Now run along. You've got a lot of shit to do and not a lot of time to do it in."

All he needed to do was gesture to the front door and Liam was gone, not even bothering to protest.

**

* * *

**

"So you're Gaston, huh?" She hung her head in disappointment. "Darn. I was really hoping for Adrián . . . Oh well," she sighed reasonably. "Ya take what ya get."

The hulking mass of muscle that was Gaston glared, his lips curling into a sneer. Lynné saw the single gold tooth wink at her in the light. She managed to hide a jump at the sudden sound of the man cracking his knuckles. Gaston stretched out his arms, flexing his fingers to show how menacing he could be.

"Come on, baby, I haven't got all day," Lyn chided from her seat.

She was prepared for the blow when it came. A little too prepared, actually. It was only a sharp slap across the face. Jesus Christ, that was pitiful! Her _father_ could do better than that and he was a weak, miserable fuck as it was.

"Is that all you've got?" she laughed. "Takes a lot more than that to turn me on, honey bear."

Gaston struck again. And again. And one more time. He pulled her hair and pinched the flesh of her arms and collarbone. He grabbed her throat, his thick, meaty fingers winding around her slender neck. And he shook her, making her head jerk up and down, forward and back, side to side; scrambling her brain like an uncooked egg.

"Oh God . . ." she sighed rapturously, breathless from the torture. "Oh baby . . . do it again."

**_What the hell is wrong with you? _**the voice demanded furiously. **_He's beating the shit out of you and you tell him to do it again!?_**

_He's hardly beating me, _Lyn snorted, unimpressed. _I've had my arm bitten open by a snake, my stomach slit open, and leg cut of. A few slaps and pinches aren't gonna have much of an effect on me. And I know that this goon can't rough me up _too _much, nor can he kill me. Not until Sands gets his rear in gear and comes to my rescue._

_**And the 'Oh baby, do it again?' **_the voice questioned suspiciously. **_Care to explain what that's all about?_**

Lynné grinned.

_A little reverse psychology never hurt anyone._

"Oh, _God!_" she gasped out. "Yes! Do it again! _Again! _Yes, God, _yes_!"

The confused look on Gaston's face was almost enough to make her laugh out loud. Almost. But she needed to keep up her charade if she wanted to accomplish anything. Perhaps – and this was really just a foolish hope – if the idiot thought she was _enjoying _her pain, he would stop, thinking deprivation would be more of a torment than torture itself.

Gaston lashed out, his large hand colliding with the side of her face, sending her thoughts reeling. They tumbled over one another as they were tossed around inside her skull, coming up as battered and bruised as she was. None of them complained, but none were uninjured either.

"I've been so bad . . ." she panted, her breath rough and haggard. Much like her appearance, she imagined. "So very, _very _naughty . . . you have to punish me. It's the only way I'll learn . . ."

Gaston grimaced, disgusted. He cleared his throat.

"I will have to speak to Mademoiselle Barillo about that," he grunted uncomfortably. "She is the one in charge of arranging your . . . punishments. Although I do not know if that is a good idea. It seems as though you _like _torture."

"Oh I do," Lynné murmured quietly. "More than you'll ever know."

It wasn't until after Gaston, so revolted that he almost sprinted, had left the room Lynné realized that she every word she had said was true.

**

* * *

**

_Richard Simmons . . . I now have this image in my head of Sands dressed up like him (afro and everything) striking a disco pose and . . . I gotta tell ya, it's not a _bad _vision, but I think that's because it's Sands. Though I still prefer the one that came to me after watching _Collateral _for the first time. Y'know that scene in _Risky Business _where Tom Cruise does that dance in his underwear and sunglasses? Personally, I like the idea of Sands in that position _much_ more than the original. _;D

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**fanfiction fanatic: **_Very _grateful you decided not to kill me. Yes, who would be willing enough to tackle the monster this story has become? Its length alone has driven meinsane enough to want to continue 9.6;

**zigzag: **Yep, only now have I seen _Finding Neverland_, sadly. It was supposed to come out Thanksgiving Day in the US I think, but it didn't. So they changed the date to I forget when, but that day came and went and it didn't come out _then _either. XO The movie theater in town was offering a sneak preview of it for only five days, so I hurried up and saw it. And I'll try to find 'I'll Stand By You.' Thanks for the recommendation! :D And you've definitely got my support for a childhood/flashback scene! It's always great to read someone else's idea of Sands' past.

**Lynx Ryder: **I've always liked Joséphine for a name :) When I was developing the character of Josey it was between Joséphine and Sophie. But in the end, I went with Joséphine because I loved the name and also the idea of Lyn calling her 'Josey' :) _Loved _that movie! It's just a nice story, y'know? I'm so glad I got to see it before it came out on DVD. I don't mind if you use 'The Queen' at all. I encourage it, actually :D And is it just me, or does Johnny make a _very_ good woman?

**morph: **Happy Christmas to you, too :) As much as I'd like Sands to exact revenge upon Liam, I'm saving the little whelp for Lynné. I think I owe it to her after all the stuff I'm putting her through. Brando accent! X3 I loved that. Can definitely see Zeb getting a laugh of it, too. Glad to hear you liked Lyn's singing. I heard that song, already knew I was gonna have Lyn tied to a chair at some point in the story, and just got a kick out of the idea of her singing 'Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.' Love that song :D And no one can out-do what the cartels did to Lyn. Not until Sands arrives, that is. o.o'

**Dawnie-7: **I agree. And think it's amazing that a story like _Finding Neverland _can be so successful. Most movies that are box office are romances or action/adventures or tragic movies, something like that. And though there was definite drama in the end (drama that made me cry ;.;) FN was really just a nice story that made you think. I think I'm just not used to movies I like turning out to be popular :D; Still getting over the shock of PotC. I _did _see that South Park episode. Oh my God . . . That was just crazy. Freakin' hilarious, though. I always knew woodland critters were a little creepy, but devil worshipers as well? Shocking. Just . . . not right. But funny as hell :D

_And before I go, I wanna post the lyrics to _Funny Honey. _I encourage you guys to read over them (if you've never seen the movie _Chicago_) and see if you don't agree that they fit Liam and Lyn's relationship._

_Sometimes I'm right,  
Sometimes I'm wrong,  
But he doesn't care,  
He'll string along.  
He loves me so,  
That funny honey of mine._

_Sometimes I'm down,  
Sometimes I'm up,  
But he follows 'round,  
Like some droopy-eyed pup.  
He loves me so,  
That sunny honey of mine._

_He ain't no sheik.  
That's no great physique.  
And, Lord knows, he ain't got the smarts._

_But look at that soul,  
I tell you, the whole,  
Is a whole lot greater than,  
Some of his parts._

_And if you knew him like me,  
I know you'd agree._

_What if the world,  
Slandered my name?  
Why, he'd be right there,  
Taking the blame._

_He loves me so,  
And it all suits me fine.  
That funny, sunny, honey,  
Hubby of mine._

_He loves me so,  
That funny honey of mine._

_Lord knows he ain't got the smarts…_

_Now, he shot off his trap.  
I can't stand that sap! _

Look at him go,  
Rattin' on me!  
With just one more brain,  
What a half-wit he'd be!

If they string me up,  
I'll know who brought the twine!

_That scummy,_

_Crummy,  
__Dummy,_

_Hubby of mine!_

Sidney: (waves furiously) Feliz Navidad, mis amigos!

Lyn: This story's in France, so it would be 'Joyeux Noël, mes amis!' Not 'Feliz Navidad, mis amigos!' 9.9

Liam: (is hiding from Lynné behind the computer desk) O.O;;;

Sidney: Whatever. 9.9 Christmas pessimist . . . And to all a good night!

Sands: Beware of Santa!

Zebbidy: Happy Yule! o.o Err . . . Season's greetings! :D;;

Sidney: Peace out!

Lyn: You're _all_ crazy.

o


	42. A Nonmedical Therapist

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Fourty-Two: **A Nonmedical Therapist

This is so messed up. Recently, I posted links to this story and Home on another website. After that, I put the first chapter of Autobio up as well. No one responded to the links, and if they did, they didn't leave a comment. But the craziest thing of all had to be the feedback I got for Autobio. Only two people reviewed and neither of them had anything positive to say. Well . . . that's not true. They said that I knew what I was doing and that I _could _write, but Sands was just incredibly out of character and that the autobio didn't seem to fit him at all, nor did it make sense. However, I am not upset by this. Just surprised and a little amused, if you can believe it. Cuz didn't I ask if it was wrong when you guys commented on how _in _character Sands was in Autobio? Had I posted that story on the other site before I posted it here, I may have felt differently, but now I think it's rather funny that those people thought Sands wasn't being himself. :D Just thought I'd let everyone in on that. Arrivederci!

* * *

Catherine smiled to herself as she set down her mimosa. Normally, she never drank but this was a special occasion. She had successfully hoodwinked Lynné. That was not an easy task. It required time, effort, and thinking. A sharp intellect was needed to screw over Lynné Sands, a sharp intellect that Catherine had. But her mentality was nothing when she didn't have any contacts. Her stepsister was the one with associates in high places, not her, which was a fact that had always irritated Cat. Lynné hated everyone – _Everyone but herself _– yet she had more affiliates than she knew what to do with. But she always found a use for them, Cat remembered bitterly, just like she always found a use for the twenty-some cell phones she had purchased. 

The tangy flavor of her drink bubbled in her mouth as she took another swig. The champagne made her nose itch and the added orange juice had a sharp, fiery taste to it, but the two drinks together clashed wonderfully in her mouth.

She knew that she shouldn't be surprised that she had fooled her stepsister. She had done it once before. And for three years she had been living on easy street, leisurely blowing through life like a cool summer's breeze because she thought Lynné dead. Until the little bitch rose from the grave a year ago. Since then, Cat had been determined to bring her stepsister down. But what about dear Sheldon, she remembered. Señorita Barillo was demanding his head along with Lynné's. Could she, Catherine _really _just stand by and watch that happen?

Cat grinned. _Yes. Then I'll finally be finishing what I startedinMexico._

* * *

In an uneasy haze, Sands tossed himself onto the living room couch. He gazed skyward, letting one hand lay across his chest and the other trail along the side of the cream colored sofa. Vaguely, he wondered who had painted the ceiling white and why they had chosen such a bland color in the first place. White was so . . . _boring_. He was tired white _especially _when it was the color of a ceiling. There had been too many white ceilings lately. 

_But that's beside the point, _he told himself.

Sighing, he massaged his eyes, uncertain if it was out of frustration or exhaustion.

_God, Lyn, you dumb bitch –_ why _did you have to go and get yourself kidnapped?_

"It's a trap," he heard Zebbidy say.

Not even bothering to look at her, he replied, "No shit. Poisson wants _me _to go in and rescue Lynné so they can snare _my _ass along with hers. _That's _why he let Fusco go. He wanted Fusco to sniff us out to tell me that Poisson's got Lyn, knowing full-well that I would go after her."

There was the creak of springs and he felt the couch sag slightly with added weight as Zebbidy sat down.

"So you _are _going to rescue her."

"Yes, Zeb," he sighed tiredly, closing his eyes, "I'm going to rescue her."

"You don't sound very enthusiastic about it."

"Well . . . after being shot once, going blind, then being shot two _more_ times, then having a dead slut coming back to haunt you . . . you tend to be . . . worn out."

"I can understand that," she said, trying to keep the humor out of her tone.

Sands raised his head, gazing at her questioningly. "Are you mocking me?"

"No." She shook her head sincerely, but Sands could tell she was hiding a smile. He rolled his eyes, intent on going back to his brooding, but Zebbidy's curiosity prevented that.

"Where did you get this?" she asked.

He glanced up. There was a long, fragile-looking finger pointing innocently at a rough, shiny line of skin that ran along the left side of his abdomen. A scar. Shit. He toyed with the idea of telling her about its origin. The thought was oddly tempting. He'd already spilt his guts twice, after all. He was practically on a roll. Why stop now?

**_Best to quit while you're ahead, _**the voice reminded him pointedly.

He ignored it. The voice made no sense anymore – not that it had been very clear to begin with. Its words were complex and deceitful at the same time. A labyrinth of twisted riddles with insults entangled in the mess.

Fuck it, he figured malevolently. Fuck the voice. It didn't know what it was saying. And even if it did, that did not give him the incentive to obey its commands. Listen to it, yes. He couldn't help listening to it – it never shut up – but he didn't have to take its inane advice. It was the fucking _voice _in his head! Who in their right mind would yield to a _voice_?

**_But you're not _in_ your right mind._**

Conjuring up an image of himself, Sands mentally held up his middle finger to the voice and left it at that.

* * *

"God . . ." He hung his head, shaking it in disappointment, and let out a humorless laugh. "And I thought I'd seen you at your worst." 

From her chair Lynné gave him a thin smile that lacked the energy she so desired. Truth was, she was tired. Physically and mentally exhausted. Her head throbbed, Gaston's blows to her face left her eyes burning, her brain was currently riding a tilt-a-whirl, and there was freezing cold plank glued to her back.

_Fucking chair_.

And now lover boy was back. Could she really call him that, even sarcastically? No, she decided. 'Lover boy' was reserved for those who were truly head-over-heels for someone. A person deeply, passionately devoted for all eternity – _that _was a lover.

He was none of those things.

He had twisted her emotions, toyed with her feelings like the manipulative puppet master that he was. He had kissed her, caressed her, done things with her that even she had never imagined. He had loved her. Until the Barillo cartel caught up with her. And what if they had never found her? Would he have stayed? No. He would have been with her up until the moment a new job offer came up. Or until another hot little number walked by. Whichever came first.

He couldn't even kill her. _Her! _Everybody wanted to kill her! Every single soul she had come into contact with, at least once in their miserable lives, they all had entertained thoughts of murdering her. How sweet. Lynné took comfort in the fact that she could take each and every one of them out if she wanted to.

"What happened to your leg?" he now wanted to know. "Or . . . lack thereof."

"I'd flip you off if my hands weren't preoccupied at the moment," was her response. Lyn sighed with a pointed glance in his direction. "What're you doing here?"

He shrugged, thoroughly enjoying the sight before him. Lynné Sands: Weak, venerable, helpless. What a laugh! Hardee-fucking-har. _Bite me, dick-face, I'm in _no _mood._

"Does this mean you want me?" she asked flirtatiously. It was highly unlikely, but if he did, he wasn't going to get her.

He bent down, his face mere inches away from hers, parts of his gray hair turning silver, reflected in the light of the lone bulb that hovered between them just above their heads. An ironic parody of mistletoe.

"It means I made it out of Mexico alive," he murmured, his tone very low. "Which is more than I can say for you."

"Why's that?" Lynné inquired curiously. "I feel very much alive."

He snorted, making a disdainful gesture to her pitifully mangled body. "If you can call this living."

"Don't know what else you'd call it," Lynné responded, her lips twisting into a smirk.

"I do: _pathetic_. It sums you up, Lynné, or," he considered reasonably, "what you've become. A person so desperate for something that they learn to _trust _just so they can get their hands on it. That's you, all right. You listened to that neurotic partner of yours and for what? Sex? _Sex_, Lynné?"

The words were harsh, intended to belittle and humiliate. _Knife in the heart, _Lyn thought with mock-passion. She withstood each degrading comment, refusing to be ashamed. There was no reason to be; none of them were true. She hadn't trusted Liam – not entirely – and it was not as if she had told him any "big secrets" that might have aided in her capture. The little prick had betrayed her, simple as that. And he had probably been planning on it all along, only he had waited until now to reveal his true colors.

"I'm going to let you in on something," Lynnébegan slowly, "but only because I _like _you." After a wink, she leaned forward and whispered conspicuously, "The only reason I trusted you was because I was desperate for sex."

It wasn't true, but he didn't need to know that. The furious look on his face was enough to make Lyn forget the devastating position she was in, enough to make her forget that he could kill her right then and there. But only for a moment. She soon recovered her memory and smirked up at him as he ground his teeth in frustration.

"Now, now," she scolded calmly. "Anger will get you no where. So what _are _you doing here? Given up the hitman biz at last?"

His hands were on both arms of the chair in a matter of seconds. Fiercely blazing eyes blocked her line of vision, boring into her skull as he leaned in towards her.

"You know you're trapped," he breathed matter-of-factly. "Stuck to this goddamn chair with no means of escape and no one who's willing to help you. And even if you weren't tied up, you couldn't go anywhere. Not like that." While his eyes moved to the space that should have been taken up by her leg, Lynné kept her sights on his face.

"You ass . . ." she said with a light laugh. Then, quite confidently, she stated, "I'm going to kill you."

"Really," he remarked, pulling away with a skeptical look. "And how do you intend to do that?"

Lynné let a long breath escape her pursed lips as she tilted her head backwards. "You know my handcuffs?" she sighed tiredly, sounding bored. She pictured a nod, then, slowly, out came her right hand, quickly followed by her left. Satisfied, she eased her head up to give him a broad smile.

"Picked 'em."

There wasn't a second to spare. He was shocked, but, from what she remembered, he had always been quick to recover. Lynné lunged forward, arms outstretched. Her fingers clawed, itching, wanting desperately to beat him within an inch of his life. But when she was only a foot away from him – Lynné gasped, she felt her eyes widen. He was gone. Her fists connected with nothing but air.

* * *

"The doctors dubbed it appendicitis and were all set to cut me open – they were more than eager to – but my mom had other ideas. She thought it was something else." 

"It was," Zebbidy murmured, breathless with awe.

Sands nodded distantly. "She goaded them out of surgery, saying that they should at least run an x-ray and that it wouldn't be proper medical procedure if they didn't."

"Not that it mattered in those days," Zebbidy muttered scornfully. Sands silently agreed with her.

"They gave in and went through with the scans. Surprise, surprise: My appendix was fine. In perfect, fully-functioning condition, actually."

"So what was wrong?"

He glanced at her before explaining, "Incredibly – they're still unsure how – a bottlecap managed to find itself inside my body and get caught in my digestive track." Ignoring Zebbidy's mortified expression, he continued, "Since I was only about six at the time, the only thing they could do was remove it surgically."

He watched as the young woman attempted to hide her gaping mouth with her hand.

"Personally, I always thought this snot-nosed creep I went to school with was the dirty culprit," he told her. "He might've slipped it into my sandwich or something during lunch hour. All I know is that, despite how naïve kids can be, I think I'd know better than to eat a bottlecap."

"I imagine you would, too," Zebbidy said quietly.

Sands said nothing but leaned his head back against the arm of the couch. Appearing utterly relaxed, he crossed his arms over his chest. As if the leisurely position wasn't enough, Sands closed his eyes, almost as if he intended to doze until Liam returned. Dumbfounded, Zebbidy stared down at the laidback figure before her, feeling her eyes widen in disbelief. There was silence between the two of them. Not uncomfortable silence, simply the kind that occurred when one was deep in thought. Or, in Zebbidy's case, when one was at a loss for words.

"Aren't _you _going to tell _me _something, now?" Sands asked, his tone as unruffled as his composure. He raised his head slightly. "That was the deal, right? I make a confession, you fire one back at me . . . 'round and 'round we go. That's how the game is done."

"I wasn't aware we were still playing," Zebbidy said airily.

He shrugged offhandedly. "If I recall correctly, we were pretty much even right up until you got me talking about Mexico. You got a lot more out of me than I originally intended, Zeb." His voice grew icy. "Other than Lynné, I hadn't planned on letting anyone in on that information."

Zebbidy felt herself stiffen. A sickening feeling was rising inside of her as an appalling thought entered her mind . . . but no . . . she was being ridiculous. Surely he wasn't going to _kill _her . . . ?

"Which means," Sands drawled, pulling himself into a sitting position, "you are in _serious _debt, young lady. So you need to give me a kick-ass confession of your own because without that, things don't balance out so well. I don't know if I've ever explained my obsession with equality, but I'm sure you catch my drift." He gave her a quick smile. "Spill, honey bunch."

Through violently fluttering eyelashes, Zebbidy stared back at him, struggling to dig up a story that was as gripping as his own. Two thoughts entered her mind and neither was very appealing. But they were all she had. _But which one do I go with? _she cried in desperation. _The one that won't get me killed, _she decided flatly.

"I know why Poisson's after me." Seeing Sands' questioning look, she quickly added, "_Not _for certain. It's just a suspicion." Her nose scrunched uncontrollably, but she didn't notice.

"Care to enlighten me?" Sands asked, raising a brow in skepticism.

"Well . . ." she began carefully, "Poisson . . . knows something about me and I think he wants to use it to his advantage. But it's impossible because it doesn't _work _on command – it just . . . _happens._" She looked up at him hopelessly.

"Okay," he said slowly. "What would this 'it' be, exactly?"

Zebbidy seemed startled, as if she hadn't realized that she had forgotten a crucial part to her tale. Suddenly, she stood up. Without a word she walked robotically to the connected kitchen and began sorting through the assorted items that were lined up on the counter. Toaster, microwave, coffee maker . . . each belonged there. Unlike her herbs, which had been scattered about the counter top in her haste to dull Sands' pain in time.

Sands . . . he was still awaiting her answer. How could she explain something like . . . Zebbidy sighed, running her hand along the pearly white edge of the counter. She bit her lip and looked up. Seeing Sands' expectant face, his eyes wide with interest and a hint of disbelief, Zebbidy made up her mind. To hell with it. She would tell him, and if he didn't believe her, then she would simply _show _him.

"Okay, hot shot," she said, casually leaning her slim form against the cool kitchen wall. "You want a kick-ass story, you got one." Her green eyes sparkled devilishly, staring directly into Sands' dark orbs. "I See things."

She would have expected him to say "Doesn't everyone?" but after four days of darkness, Zebbidy knew she should have known better when Sands said, "Like what? Dead people, pink elephants . . ."

**_London, France . . . underpants? _**the voice snickered.

"Images," Zebbidy explained. "Visions is a better word. I don't know how else to put it . . . You know those fits you've seen me go into? Seizures, you called them. Well, whenever that happened, I was having a vision."

"And what do you . . . see . . . when these things occur?"

"It depends," Zebbidy sighed exasperatedly. "Something usually triggers it – I never know what, exactly – and the next thing I know I'm spiraling into someone's future or the past . . . and I'll See something.

"Then I can read people's thoughts," she continued, beginning to feel drained. By now Sands was walking toward her, as confused as ever and most likely wondering about her mental health.

"But not all the time. Usually, that only happens when someone is feeling particularly emotional. I don't think I've ever gotten anything clear out of you," Zebbidy informed him. "I've only been able to look into your mind about two times, and even then the thoughts were scattered."

Sands was staring at her, looking completely dumbfounded; it was even possible he was wary of her. Nervousness was rising inside of her, coursing through her veins, spreading like wild fire but Zebbidy hurried on in a feeble attempt to douse the flames of panic.

"In . . . a _sense_," she began delicately, not wanting him to get the wrong impression, "I'm a . . ." It was no use. Her voice broke and faded. Zebbidy looked into Sands' eyes – eyes she had brought sight to when it seemed impossible. For a moment she wondered what she owed him. Nothing. If anything, he owed _her_. But Zebbidy knew that didn't matter to her. Helping someone and expecting nothing in return was one of the main rules when it came to healing. She had to remember that. Taking a deep breath and squaring her shoulders, Zebbidy gazed up at Sands, her face an impassive mask, and coolly stated, "I'm an alternative practitioner."

He stared back at her dumbly, not getting it.

"An obeah doctor," Zebbidy offered, taking another shot. Sands still had nothing to say. Rolling her eyes, Zebbidy shook her head before suddenly blurting out, "A shaman, a wangateur, an _isangoma!_ Sands," she sighed exasperatedly, "I'm a witch."

The words must have had some type of effect on him, but if they did, Sands never showed it. Everything about him remained the same. His body language, his facial expression . . . nothing changed. He continued to stare at her through emotionless eyes while she gazed back at him, ready to fall limp with fatigue. If Sands didn't say something soon she thought she would collapse. Then, quietly, carefully, the agent's lips parted.

"I thought . . . you were practicing to be a doctor."

Flooded with relief that extinguished her querulous fire, Zebbidy sighed, feeling a smile pulling at her lips.

"No," she corrected, shaking her head. "Well . . . technically, yes. But by doctor I meant nonmedical therapist, although I prefer the term healer if it's all the same to you."

"You said you were a witch."

"True, I _do _like to indulge in the religion from time to time –"

"Religion?"

"Wicca."

"Oh."

"But I wouldn't go as far to say I'm a witch. As proud as I am of my heritage, calling me witch in public might not be the best of ideas. Which brings us to Poisson."

"Poisson," Sands echoed, skepticism prominent in his voice.

"He knows I'm . . . psychic, I guess you could say, and my theory is that he wants to bend my abilities to his _own _will. He wants me to predict things for him – assassination attempts, his downfall, if his affiliates are trustworthy or not . . . But he needs to understand that it doesn't _work _like that. I have no control over my abilities and he _doesn't understand that_. I cannot conjure up images in my head. They come when they want to."

"How does Poisson know this?" Sands demanded quietly.

"He knew my family," Zebbidy answered, sounding surprised. "You knew that. Or at least your agency did. He knew me when I was a child and he knew what I was capable of. You know that my family – specifically my father – was in Poisson's inner circle. So naturally, Poisson knew me as a kid and so he knew what I was capable of."

"And by 'capable of' you mean 'seeing' . . ." Sands held out his hands and shrugged. This made no sense, but then again, neither did losing your eyes, getting them back, and then losing your sight all over again. "So, what are you? One of those . . . psychic detectives or telepathic phone operators?"

She rolled her eyes. "Spare me. Not that I'm bragging, but I'm a lot better than those phonies. _Believe_ me."

* * *

_Now you know the deal behind Zebbidy's freaky psychic abilities. Understand that she's not a witch per se, although her original character, the first Zebbidy was much stronger in her telekinetic abilities than the Zebbidy in this story is. But since I do _not _write sci-fi stories and didn't want this one to turn into one, I had to tone her down a bit and turn her into a "wangateur." _;D 

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**Invader Nicole: **Sands as Richard Simmons seems to be one of those things that's both very amusing and very creepy at the same time. And Sands is gonna kill himself if he keeps smoking, same thing goes for Jigen u.u But it's their bodies they're ruining, not mine, so it's fine with me. u.u

**Dawnie-7: **I've had that image of Lynné in my head for a good while now. This story has gotten so long, I was beginning to wonder if I'd forget that scene before I got it written up 9.6 Thankfully, I finally got it out. Glad you liked it :D

**vanillafluffy: **Yes, Lynné's got a warped idea of reverse psychology. Warped, but effective! Plus at some point in the story, I wanted her to notice that she's masochistic. u.u

**fanfiction fanatic: **Don't feel bad. I do the same thing with the ceiling fan.

**morph: **Unfortunately, Sands couldn't tell. He knows it's a trap, but he doesn't know that Liam's involved :( I'm glad somebody mentioned the _Beauty and the Beast _line, partially because I, as usual, forgot to at the end of the chapter 9.9 Yeah, Lyn being a sadomasochist . . . It just made sense to me :D

**Lynx Ryder: **I'm having extreme regrets about having Liam lie to Sands. He should know better than to do that and after what Ajedrez did to him, Sands' trust in people is beyond thin. But he had to betray him in order for the story to continue. What really got to me was the fact that neither Sands nor Zeb noticed he was lying. They think something's up, but they're unaware that Liam's in on the act :( They'll find out, though, sooner or later. 'Only Lyn.' Yep, that pretty much sums it up :D I'm not gonna say that it _isn't _creepy that Lyn likes pain, but I've got a scene planned that I just can't resist. It involves her being a sadist… I won't get into it; might wind up giving something away :D; And I'll have to find some way to shield Liam from you. Can't have him getting his ass kicked just yet ;)

_Hope everyone had a wonderful New Year!!!_

o


	43. Can't Get a Man with a Gun

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Forty-Three: **Can't Get a Man with a Gun

I've got bad news: Updates might be a bit slow for a while. If there was any way to prevent this, by all means, I would do it, but I can't. Speech league season is here again, eating away my Saturdays (the only day I get to sleep in -.9;;) and several of my weekdays as well. But as soon as the evil time of speech league is over, my schedule will clear up considerably. Wait, no it won't because then play practice is going to start. Okay, okay. From now until let's say . . . May (hopefully this story will be finished before then 9.6) I'm going to write a chapter and then post it the moment I get it done. That could mean there will be updates on Fridays and Mondays like usual, but there could be new chapters up other days, too. I'm simply going to update whenever I can.

* * *

"Where are they?" 

"Señorita, try to be patient –"

"_Two days_. It has been two days since you sent that American –"

"Agent Fusco."

"— out to retrieve him. Why isn't he back yet?"

"Señorita Barillo, you have not let me explain," Édouard Poisson stated calmly. From across the room, Ajedrez shot him a furious glare, her eyes flashing in warning. Unperturbed, Poisson continued, lighting up a cigar as he did so.

"I received a call from Agent Fusco on Wednesday –"

"The same day _he _was ordered to –" Ajedrez began to rant but Poisson interjected with a raised palm. He stalled for a moment, enjoying both his cigar and watching the haughty young woman stew. She had no patience, nor did he, but _he _did not need to learn forbearance. _He _was in control of one of the largest Mafia families in all of Europe! _He_ had more power than the impudent _señorita_ would ever know.

_Ah, but she is the head of a drug ring, now. I must keep that in mind._

Poisson exhaled (and filled the room with foul-smelling smoke in the process) and smiled at his young accomplice. Flicking an ash into the brass tray in front of him, he began to explain.

"When he called, Agent Fusco informed me that your Agent Sands –"

Ajedrez made a noise of disgust and crossed her arms. Poisson chose to ignore her.

"— was caught in the crossfire that broke out at last Sunday's get-together."

He took a moment to pause and watch as the woman's fury melted from her youthful face, draining from her body, collecting on the floor, and evaporating before it had a chance to be absorbed by his Oriental rug. Ajedrez, her anger replaced with interest, was staring at him in a new light – a light Poisson recalled witnessing only twice before. Once, many months ago, when he had informed her that they knew the location of the CIA agents and again when she was told that they had successfully snare Agent Lynné Sands, the woman who had managed to elude them for so long. Poisson observed Ajedrez now as she gazed at him through honey-colored eyes, her brows peaked in interest.

"Was he injured?" she asked. Her voice was nothing but a dangerously low whisper, full of urgency, curiosity, and rancor.

"Yes," Poisson answered at last. "_That _is why he has not . . . graced us with his presence."

"When _will _he show himself?" Ajedrez demanded.

"According to Agent Fusco," Poisson began, "his wounds are healing nicely . . . it should be no more than three day's time."

"And he told you this on Wednesday?" she asked.

Poisson nodded.

Seeing this, Ajedrez grinned in knowing satisfaction.

"Perfect."

* * *

**_Don't you think you should be doing something more productive that sitting here?_**

_What do you mean?_

_**Trying to escape, perhaps? You undid the cuffs; now's the time when you make your grand escape, Houdini. Wow the audience.**_

_But there is no audience, _Lynné thought dumbly. Surely the voice knew that. The voice claimed to know everything.

**_I was kidding_**, it snapped irritably.

_Oh, _was her blunt reply. _Well, even though I _do _have the cuffs off, I can't go anywhere. Only one leg, remember?_

_**You've traveled on one leg before and you were bleeding! **_The voice was practically glowing with rage, ready to boil over at any second. Like a teakettle, it hissed at her, expelling hot steam and fogging her vision.

_That's no way to be, _she scolded patiently. _As I told my man the other day, anger gets you no where._

_**Your man . . . Please. Spare me, **_the voice scoffed disdainfully.

_He didn't love me anyway._

_**But **_**you _loved _him_, Lynnie._**

_Not anymore, _she murmured venomously. She stared down at the cement floor beneath her, seeing nothing but gray. Cold. Hard. Lifeless – no, soulless. It reminded her of someone, but she would not say who.

**_Who _do _you love, Lynné?_**

She smiled coldly, shaking her head at herself.

_Damned if I know._

_**I think you do**_, the voice whispered, so faint Lynné could barely hear it. But it was impossible for her not to. She always heard the voice. No matter how drug-induced she was, no matter how exhausted she may be, no matter how much blood she may have lost . . . the voice could always be heard. And when in a plain room with no windows or people and nothing but a single bulb for a light source, the voice could become exceptionally loud.

**_Who do you love? Who are the ones you love?_**

The voice was loud, but Lynné ignored it.

**_The kid?_**

No response.

**_Sands?_**

Still nothing. For once, Lynné was keeping her mouth (and her mind) shut.

**_Your father?_**

She wasn't even going to justify that with an answer.

**_The assassin?_**

He was old news as far as she was concerned. Women like her were always searching for something fresh and new. Sensing something, the voice's tone twisted evilly.

**_Liam?_**

Her fingers abruptly turned to claws as she flexed her wrists out in front of her. A silver ring hung loosely from her right wrist. The miniature chain and second ring dangled helplessly as she clenched and unclenched her fists. She still marveled, from time to time, at how she had gotten the cuffs off. It had been a long time since her own cleverness had surprised her like that. Picking the locks had not been as hard as she had imagined. And, scrutinizing the size of the cuffs now, she imagined it would not have been necessary at all if her hands had only been a bit smaller. She could have just twisted, pulled, and then she would have been free.

_I can always use that on Fusco, _Lyn smirked sadistically.

**_I thought you wanted to shoot him?_**

_You can't get a man with a gun, _she mused with cold humor.

**_No, _**the voice agreed quietly. **_You can't._**

* * *

All around him, white walls – clean, sterile – glared at him, as if daring him to touch them with his grubby, sticky palms. On a normal day, he might have just to see what would happen. This wasn't his room, after all. It wasn't even his house. Why should he care if someone pitched a fit because their precious walls were no longer spotless? But he refrained from making a mess because this was not a normal day. 

Below him, blue and white speckled tiles reflected his image. Or someone he imagined must be him. There was no one else in the room. But the person on the floor could not be him. When had he become so small and sickly? When had he started to look so afraid? So worried? So helpless? He was pitiful.

High above him, lights were blindingly bright, blazing down on him and making his eyes water. Or maybe that was being brought on by the panic, the worry, or the uncertainty of what lay ahead. He was in a strange room in a place he feared and hated and those holding him captive had locked the door.

He stared out at the room they had left him in, cold and in pain. The tables in doctor's offices were always freezing and he never understood why. The entire décor (white with pale and navy blue) was frigid. He shivered and tried to take his mind off of the iciness of the room.

_Why is this taking so long? _he wondered as his eyes drifting hopelessly to the door – the room's only entrance and its only exit. _They know what's wrong with me, so what're they doing?_

The opening of a door – the only door – and the person who stepped into the room, silenced all further thoughts. Sands stared, just a sickly, scared little boy, and the middle-aged woman gazed back at him, relieved that she would be ending his pain soon.

"Hello, Jeffery," she said. She smiled warmly but faltered when the little boy's eyebrows rose in suspicion. "Your mother told me you like to be called that."

"Where is she?" he interrupted.

The woman was sympathetic as she edged into the room. "Aww . . . you miss your mother?"

Had he not been so frustrated, Sands would have rolled his eyes at the question. Instead he threw the woman the deepest look of loathing he could muster, narrowing his brows fiercely and glaring directly into her eyes. He was cold, tired, and in more pain than he could have ever imagined . . . and this woman was _mocking _him? Treating him like a stupid little kid? Absolutely not. That was it. He'd had enough.

"Who are you?" he demanded to know, his temper flaring.

"I'm Dr. Hoffman," the woman tried to explain.

She thought that information might calm the child down and assure him that he was in safe hands, but she was dead wrong. It made matters worse. Instead of soothing his frazzled nerves, her name made the boy even more suspicious. Warily, as if she was going to lash out at him, his voice hollow, he uttered one word: "Doctor?"

"Yes," she answered delicately, sensing that the child was likely to snap at any moment. "I'm here to give you your injection."

As soon as the words left her mouth, Dr. Hoffman regretted ever coming to work that morning. The effect of her sentence was instantaneous. Never in her life had Dr. Hoffman witnessed such an impact. Her patient's eyes went wide with terror as he edged as far away from her as he possibly could, a stream of questions erupting from his mouth with unfathomable urgency.

"Injection? Why do you have to give me an injection? Are you allowed to? Who said it was okay?"

"Relax, kiddo," she tried to reason. "It's just a shot –"

"What kind of shot?" His voice rose to a shrill soprano as his panic crept even higher. "What's it for? What's in it!?"

"We just need to put you to sleep before we begin the operati –"

"Operation!?" Dr. Hoffman watched helplessly as her patient's terror and suspicion climbed even higher.

"What about an operation!?"

Dr. Hoffman was puzzled. "Didn't anyone tell you?"

"No," he answered resentfully, his eyes alive with fear, his voice shaking in anger. "No one's told me anything. I've been locked in here for hours."

A small smile inched its way onto Dr. Hoffman's face at the child's exaggeration. He had only been in the room for fifteen minutes, but she was certain that to him it had seemed like an eternity. Once again, she marveled at how seconds could stretched on like hours to a small child and how life seemed like the longest thing in the world to them and so very short to an adult.

"Well," she began cautiously, keeping her demeanor measured and unruffled as she approached him. "We've looked at the x-rays and the diagnosis is this." She sighed, wondering how to explain the situation to the boy but then just decided to be blunt about it. "There's a bottlecap inside you, kiddo. We've got to get it out of you."

"Did my mom say it was okay?"

The doctor blinked, confused. "We're not allowed to administer any kind of treatment without a parent's or patient's consent."

He stared at her.

Realizing that, to her patient, the words must have sounded like a foreign language, Dr. Hoffman quickly translated, "We can't do anything unless your mom says yes."

"Did she?" He sounded very skeptical. Unsure if her answer would suffice, Dr. Hoffman opened her mouth to speak but never got the chance to say a word. The pretty young woman who sailed through the door abruptly cut her off.

The little boy bit his lip, scarcely daring to believe that his mother had entered the unbearable, frozen prison that was the doctor's office. The room was too awful for a person like his mother. In his eyes, she was far too gentle for such a harsh climate. But there she was, standing in the doorway and glaring furiously at the doctor. If she _was _standing in the horrible room, then she was his savior.

"Mom?" Sands asked tentatively.

"I'm here, sweetheart," his mother assured him, pushing all other matters aside for her son. She put her arms around his thin body, holding him close as he stared over her shoulder at Dr. Hoffman.

"Did you say it was all right if they gave me a shot?" he whispered in her ear, his eyes fixed on the doctor.

"Of course, darling," she replied simply.

"What? Why?" he demanded, appalled.

"It's the only way," his mother answered. "I imagine Dr. Hoffman told you about the situation, yes?"

Said doctor cleared her throat and spoke up. "Yes, I did."

"You understand that you have to have an operation?" his mother asked, turning back to him.

Reluctantly, he nodded before pressing his face against her, hiding his eyes in the warm fabric of her tan jacket.

"It's nothing serious, bébé," she assured him. "They just need to get the _capsule bouteille _out of you."

"But why do I have to get a shot?" he mumbled. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the menacing nurse from hell. She had her back to him. Her crisp, white coat – pure, angelic, unthreatening in every way – was just an illusion, a costume she wore to hide her scales and claws. Suddenly, her arm stretched out. He followed it. White . . . white . . . white . . . the flesh of a hand and then . . . Like a gruesome monster rearing its hideous head into the air, a syringe – nine, ten inches long? – full of crystal clear liquid appeared, clasped tightly in the razor sharp talons of the doctor.

"Bête, you wish to be awake while they make the procedure?" his mother questioned, raising her eyebrows skeptically. He looked deep into her eyes, gazing intently at the frosty blue irises – so unlike his own dark orbs. Why, he wondered, was he so worried? The operation was said to be a simple one, his mother had said so. And she never hid the truth from him. She wouldn't lie now . . . right?

Right, he decided at last. She would never lie to him. He stole one last look at his mother and then, slowly, hesitantly, he held out his arm to Dr. Hoffman.

* * *

Her nose twitching wildly, Zebbidy raised a long finger up to her slender neck, searching for the length of ribbon that usually encircled it. She was momentarily surprised when she felt nothing but the soft warmth of her own flesh and not the smooth silk she had been expecting. 

Several seconds passed as she went on a fruitless hunt for the choker and two more seconds went by before she hit a bump in her expedition. And then she remembered.

She had quite literally hit a bump: The dark, raised bit of flesh that grew on the left side of her throat. It had always stood out against the pale, peachy tone of her complexion. A birthmark. An everlasting sign of identification. A single flaw on her seemingly unblemished neck that she had never been tempted to have removed. Until six months ago.

Sands, she remembered, had made her take off her necklace – remove the birthmark's mask, in a sense. He had wanted to know why she kept it hidden. To him, he had said, she seemed far too preoccupied to fuss over a small vanity mark.

"So why hide it?"

She had tapped the spot knowingly and replied, "It's noticeable, and that's not my vanity talking. This dot stands out. Worse yet, Poisson _knows _about it. And if there's one thing he's got his men hunting for, it's a chick with a growth on her neck."

"Okay," Sands had accepted, nodding. "I can understand that."

"It's strange, though," Zebbidy had said as an afterthought. "In the olden days, during the purification, a large mole or birthmark was one of the key ways to identify a witch." She smirked. "Especially if it was on the neck."

Now she found herself smiling once more as she stood in the doorway of one of the bedrooms – formerly Lynné's – leaning heavily against the frame and gazing intently across the threshold at the sleeping man in front of her.

_But he has his back to me, _she reminded herself, _so I can't be sure if he's _really _asleep._

If Sands wasn't, then he could certainly act the part, Zebbidy silently praised as she watched his body rise and fall each time a breath was held and released.

* * *

"_Are _you going after her?" 

"For the seventeenth time, yes."

"Did you call the CIA?"

"For the sixth time, no."

"Are you _going _to call the CIA?"

"For the ninth time, _no_."

"Well . . . do you have a plan?"

"I have an _outline _. . ."

"But you _are _going after her?"

"For the _eighteenth_ time . . . _yes._"

"_When_??"

"For . . . the _twelfth _time," Sands sighed, speaking slowly and deliberately, "I – don't – know." He was more than irked at the other agent's persistence. Truthfully, he wanted to get his sister out of Poisson's clutches more than he let on – much more. But there were certain feelings he simply refused to express. Fusco was fretting enough for the both of them, anyway.

"But they could be _torturing _her!" he was exclaiming, ready to rip his fair moustache. Normally, Sands would have found the younger man's tangled hair, rumbled shirt, and wide popping eyes incredibly funny, but now Liam's frowzy appearance didn't seem remotely comical at all.

"Yes, I suppose they _could _be," Sands said in measured tones.

"_Exactly!_" Liam cried exasperatedly.

"She could be injured," Sands offered. Liam nodded vigorously.

"That's right, that's _exactly_ right," he urgently agreed.

From the kitchen doorway, Zebbidy stared in awed puzzlement. The scene before her was unbelievable. The way Sands could discuss his sister's condition so easily . . . it was almost unnerving. But she had learned something about the agent in the months she had spent with him. That calm tone meant he had a plan. There was something up his sleeve and he was using it to bait Liam Fusco.

"She could be locked in a freezing cold cell with rats and shit-stained walls, the works."

And then it dawned on her.

"She could be starving to death!" Zebbidy blurted out. She looked to Sands, praying that he understood what she was doing (and that she had understood what _he _had been doing). Their eyes locked for a brief moment and comprehension passed between them. Though the connection only lasted for a single second, when they broke it, they were left with a shared insight.

"Hell, she's been missing for three days," Sands continued as smoothly as if Zebbidy had been playing along the entire time. "Starvation is not out of the question."

"God, she was so young . . ." Zebbidy simpered in a barely audible whisper.

"Was?" Liam repeated, clearly taken aback. "What – you don't think she's dead, do you?"

"One way to find out," Sands told him and he pulled out his cell phone.

* * *

Joséphine was determined not to cry. She knew she could not. Any sign of weakness was forbidden at any of her grandfather's homes, but that wasn't what dammed her tears. It was because she knew that she had to be strong for herself, for American agents, for Zebbidy Samhain, and for Mademoiselle Sands. 

Tears could be incredibly forceful she soon realized when her eyes began to betray her. They started to sting and suddenly began to water, causing Joséphine to drop her head in shame. She felt as though she had failed. She had let la mademoiselle down by not warning her about the man and woman earlier. She could have run upstairs and explained to Mademoiselle Sands that the two were planning on taking her away and that Monsieur Fusco had betrayed her.

Instead she had stayed put and ripped into the anonymous male agent because he had treated her like a child. And she was a child. She knew that, but that did not give that man the right to talk to her like she was ignorant. Still, she should not have lost her temper. At six years old she should have known better and should have been more mature than that. But she hadn't, and now everyone she had grown to care about was suffering. It should have been her in their place, she thought miserably. Or those horrible agents who had deceived them all. They deserved to be punished even more than she did.

Her grand-père's idea of punishment was to ostracize her. She was shut off from the rest of her family and was allowed human contact only when the servants brought up her meals. Aside from the help, she was shut off from all life. It would not have been so bad, she figured, had she been able to see. She could have read her books, but they were useless now after the car crash that took her parents. Television was out of the question. Her grand-père had taken it away along with her CD player and her piano in order to deprive her of any kind of entertainment. She had often wondered if he was trying to drive her mad, and now she had no doubts of her grand-père's intentions.

* * *

As he typed at his computer, Vincent Poisson could not help but feel a sense of loss. And slight resentment. The team of American agents had failed him. They had promised to aide in him when his fled the country, they had sworn that he would reach Canada safely, and they had assured him that it would not be long before he was cheering on a hockey team and sucking down maple syrup for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. 

However, Vincent was not doing either of those things; he was still in Paris, still under the control of his overbearing father, and becoming increasingly irritated as the minutes ticked by. He was determined not to allow himself to be so riled over a broken deal, after all, a noble, artistic man such as himself should have a secure hold on his composure. However, he soon learned that keeping his temper in check proved to be more difficult than Vincent had originally thought. So when the phone rang and he slammed his fists down on the keyboard in frustration, he was more than a little surprised.

"Qu'est-ce que c'est?" he demanded, not bothering to hide his vexation. Then, he blanched. The voice on the other end was one he had not expected to hear. Sinking back into his chair, his eyes round with stunned disbelief, Vincent gasped out:

"Monsieur _Sands!?_"

* * *

_I apologize for how atrociously late this chapter is. I honestly did not think it would take me this long to get it posted. But it was a long one, so hopefully that makes up for the lateness, if only partially. And before I forget (because you all know I do :D;;) when Lyn said "Can't get a man with a gun" in the second scene, she was referring to the song You Can't get a Man with a Gun from the musical _Annie Get Your Gun_, which is about Annie Oakley and makes me think of Lyn because Oakley was a cowgirl and Sands, of course, wore a cowboy outfit in OUaTiM. _:D 

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**Dawnie-7: **Good to hear you liked the Vincent cameo. Lord knows I like that man even though I doubt I'll get around to writing a _Collateral _fic.

**vanillafluffy: **S'okay. The only person who was to take Zeb's witch-like skills as a complete shock was Sands. You guys had an advantage because you all knew about her visions. Actually, I was a little stunned when no one said they suspected her of being a witch when she first started seeing things.

**fanfiction fanatic: **Ooo . . . lamps can be fascinating, so long as they're not evil or demonic like the lamp that once sat in my hallway O.O;; And I'm planning on some action scenes in upcoming chapters so you know :D

**Lynx Ryder: **I don't mind you getting annoyed with the flamers, although if you read the insult and saw how stupid it was, I hope you wouldn't use your energy on those people. They constantly insult the people at FFN, calling them stupid and such when _they _can't understand the _title._ 9.9 I think the only thing that really got to me was when they started ripping on me for putting the accent on the end of 'Lynné.' I didn't like how Lynnae looked and I thought people would keep misreading if I made it Lynnet, even though that _is_ the proper French spelling. Thanks for complementing my mimosa description, especially since I've yet to sample one :D Sands knows he cares about Lyn, yet he can't – or rather, won't let himself show it even in a dire situation. ;D The same thing goes for when Lyn's being passionate. She _is _a bit of a romantic, but it's not a side she's willing to express. 'Mr. Silver Fox . . .' XD! But unfortunately, so many hours with only a light bulb for company have begun to take their toll on Lynné. Aww, it's sweet that you'd put the hurtin' on Sands if he killed Zeb :D And 42 chapters . . . .9.6;;; Oy vey . . .

**LadySparrowJack: **Aww, it's okay to be a little abrasive towards Cat. Or even _very _abrasive :) Just be lucky you don't have to write her XO She always leaves me feeling incredibly disgusted whenever I'm finished writing one of her scenes. And it's cool that you've tried Sands' favorite dish. I've been wanting to, but so far, vegetarianism has held me back. Tequila with Mountain Dew . . . interesting combo and not bad sounding, either :)

**The Logical Ghost: **Honestly, I did some serious debating about whether or not to give Sands his sight back while writing Home. For the longest time I was against doing it, but then I realized that I had yet to read one post-Mexico story in which he wasn't blind (really, I thought there would be a lot were he could see again), so I decided to do something different. I think I'll take that as both a compliment and criticism, because I do tend to put a bit of myself in the ladies of the story – well, really just Lynné as far as I can tell – but I try not make it incredibly noticeable. Admittedly, I enjoy happy endings, especially when dealing with Sands because I put him through so much in the story, by the time I reach the end I think he deserves a bit of a break.

**zigzag: **I didn't think he was OOC in Autobio, but then I thought I might just be delusional or something. But then I read what all the criticizers had to say and was just like 'This is just _stupid._' Here's the link if you'd like to read for yourself, just take the spaces after the dots out: **http:www.livejournal. com/community/aiecaramba/1872. html#cutid1 **And lot of chemistry? That's certainly good to hear!

**morph: **Zebbidy actually entered my head long before OUaTiM was out in theaters. Along with the visions, Zeb's OC had incredibly sensitive hearing and eyesight, as well as the ability to read minds easily. She and Sands met up in the RP I'm in while I was writing Home. They hit it off and now they're engaged o.o Thing was, I wanted to write a sequel story and I wanted to include a new character but it felt strange giving Sands a potential love interest when there was Zeb. So instead of creating someone new, I decided to throw Zebbidy in and . . . tone her down a bit. Okay, a lot. That's sort of a long way of saying I'm glad you like the idea of her being semi-human :) (gasp!) Somebody made the connection! Finally! I thought a lot of people would link the scene with Sands and his mom to the bottlecap story, but so far you've been the only one. Ah, Cat . . . no, her schemes and plans of betrayal are not a new occurrence. She's been up to no good for quite a while.

**DragonHunter200: **Glad to see you're all caught up :) And that you liked the Sands/Zeb scenes too. That's what I thought when I was reading the comments the flamers left on Autobio. I've read a good bit of Sands fanfiction and have, sadly, come across a handful that were incredibly OOC, but after reading them and then looking at mine . . . really, I'd like to _hope _that my fics weren't like those. I could be wrong, of course. Still, like I said, I'm not gonna let it get to me. People are creeps sometimes, unfortunately, and it's best just to ignore them. u.u

_Oh, and for anyone who is reading the Lynné Dead Journal, it is being updated once again! Sands is writing the entries now since Lyn is . . . preoccupied. But if anyone is interested, just go to _**www. Deadjournal. Com/users/cia agent sands** _(don't forget to take the spaces out) to check it out._

o


	44. Slight Imbalances

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Forty-Four: **Slight Imbalances

This just in . . . I absolutely, completely, and utterly _despise _FanFiction .net! The destruction-bringing, tyrannical bastard who runs this damn website is deleting fanfics! Not mine. Not yet, anyway. But a lot of my friends' have been deleted. And why? Because they were written in script form and not pros. X'O Admittedly, I do not like my personal script form and only wrote like that at the time because it was easier and faster, but I do not see a problem with writing in that style. The ones that are gone were actually good. I honestly do not understand why FFn has decided to do this. Something about this being a "professional" website, I think. (face contorts with fury) This is _fanfiction_, people! It's not supposed to be professional, it's supposed to be _fun! _Bloody freakin' hell . . . If I find another site, I'll send links out to everyone I can think of and tell them to spread the word. This is getting ridiculous.

* * *

**_So . . . when did you become a masochist?_**

Tilting her head thoughtfully to one side, Lynné considered the voice's question. It had been a while ago, now that she thought about it. Though she had only recently come to terms with her passion for pain, Lynné knew that the arousal she had felt . . . She knew that it was not her first experience with the it. As Gaston's blows came at her again and again, the craving for pain had surged through her veins, charged up her brain, filling her body with adrenaline. But the eroticism was simply being given a wake up call. The feeling had awoken from a deep and peaceful sleep by the mobster's attack.

She remembered it well, that burning thirst for abuse. It had been so alive . . . and it had coursed through her body, begging for more, yearning for the unfulfilled lust she so desired . . .

Seven years ago, she recollected, thinking back on her first few years with the Company, way back at good ol' Camp Swampy, when she had been the sassy, sultry rookie with the face of an angel and the mouth of a truck driver. Everyone, especially the higher-ups, had been certain that she would not last. Lynné Sands was a slacker! All she had were a shapely figure, great legs, and a nice rack. And her daddy's plastic, of course. Those were all wonderful qualities and nobody (at least, none of her male colleagues) was complaining, however, they were qualities of a trophy wife, not a CIA agent.

She had shocked them all when she sailed through each test with ease. Oh well, everyone had figured. The girl was smart, but there was no way a woman as small and thin as Lynné Sands would do well in the physical portion of her training.

Though not incredibly strong, Lynné's light body made her exceptionally fast. And she knew nearly every weak spot of the human body, a handy trick when they were practicing defensive moves. Though she had not gone with the flying colors she had received in her earlier classes, she had not left physical training with a lack of confidence.

Fine, the heads had decided. So she passed the second test – barely. But could she handle pain?

Lyn had scoffed at this. After all the crazy shit she, her brother, and stepsisters had gotten into when they were kids? Snake bites, the frozen tundra, tennis balls gone awry, slips, falls, car crashes, hangovers, God only knew _what _kind of drugs, cuts, bruises, broken bones, and more scars than she could ever have imagined . . .

Oh yeah. She could handle pain.

It was standard procedure, or so they said. All of the agents needed to experience a small amount of pain so they would have a vague idea of what to expect should they ever be captured and tortured.

Lynné smirked at the memory. Shock treatments. Strange choice of torture device, but she had been intrigued by the concept nonetheless.

Most of her classmates had been terrified at the thought of being electrocuted. Granted that several guys had gaffed and tried to act like manly men, Lynné had rolled her eyes, knowing full well that all of them were scared shitless. Not that she herself hadn't been a little bit bugged about the electrocution, but she had also been determined to go through with it. As she watched each of her fellow rookies go through with it – twitching with each spasm of pain – Lynné had grown increasingly anxious. She had wanted to go first so that she could get it over and done with and then spend the rest of the class period watching her classmates squirm. Unfortunately, the teacher had decided to torture them in alphabetical order. 'S' being towards the end of the alphabet, Lyn had been one of the last to go.

At last, she took her seat in the chair where the torment would take place. All of the trainees had sat in that chair to test their tolerance levels. The teacher had said that it would be more comfortable for them, but that they also might not be able to get back up again.

He had looked down at her, a simple stun gun in his hand. The next thing she knew the tip of the instrument had tapped against her shoulder and a mild, electric buzz had flown through her system. She had not been expecting the shock to happen so fast, and she had not expected it to be so diluted either. Puzzled, Lynné glanced up at her instructor and inquired skeptically:

"That it?"

"That was just a tester," the teacher had growled.

Annoyed, he had driven the stun gun into her shoulder a second time. This time, he kept it there for twenty seconds before finally letting up.

"Was that another tester?" Lynné had questioned sarcastically.

The teacher had given her one of the looks that she had often received from Sands. It was either the 'you-get-what-you-paid-for' or the 'you-asked-for-this' look. But before Lyn could decide, her teacher had plunged the taser into her skin, fast and hard.

And she had felt a sensation so vigorous that her breath had escaped her. For the first time in her life after reading _Laughing Wild_ and being taken by a crazy woman's logic, Lynné forgot to breathe. At that moment, all thoughts disappeared from her mind. Even the voice was silent.

But everything came flooding back when she suddenly realized that there was no pressure being applied to her arm. The shock was gone. Disappointed, she gazed up at her instructor and tormenter and said sorrowfully,

"I think you'll have to do that again."

And he did. Harder. Longer. Electricity ripped through her small body, tearing at her muscles, making them scream. Her heart raced.

"Oh God!" she gasped delightedly.

The teacher was furious. He shocked her again.

"Oh!"

Again, with more force.

"Oh!!"

The teacher was determined to make her scream. Where everyone else had failed, he would not. Lynné Sands could be broken, and he was going to prove it. Again, he jammed the stun gun into her arm and Lynné slumped. This time, she let out a different cry.

"_Ohhh _. . ."

A tired grin plastered across her face, she leaned forward in her chair and let her head droop. With an exhausted laugh, she shook her pounding head and once again turned to her teacher.

"That was a helluva ride. We'll have to do it again, sometime."

When she tired to get out of the chair, terribly weak and tingling all over, her muscles had twitched and had not obeyed the commands her brain sent to them, yet Lynné hardly noticed. She had never felt more exhilarated. Since that day, the Electric Slide had taken on a whole new meaning to her.

**

* * *

**

Vincent Poisson had been surprised to hear from him, just as Sands had predicted. That was good. It was always reassuring to know that being blind had not damaged his credentials. Not that he had _suspected _anything of being snafued, but it was always a good idea to test his abilities out before going into action. He had caught Fusco off guard on a few occasions, but the younger agent was not what Sands would call reliable. Fusco was a panicky twerp – easily surprised. He needed to test his skills on someone who would be a bit more difficult.

And he needed someone who could tell him about his sister.

So he had given Vincent Poisson a call, and the man had delivered the goods. He now had a decent portion of Édouard's son's trust, his cell phone number, and his whereabouts. Which meant that he now knew _Lyn's _whereabouts.

Sands grinned, ignoring the puzzled look on Zebbidy's wan face as she examined his wounds for the umpteenth time. Sometimes he could just be too damn good. Or a situation could just be too damn easy. But Sands preferred the former.

"I didn't think he'd be willing to help," Zebbidy told him. She was talking about Vincent, he knew, but he didn't agree with her. Though the rouge mobster had been short at first, Sands had known that Vincent would give in. They always did. Eventually.

"You'd be surprised at what people are willing to do," he drawled, stretching in order to avoid Zebbidy's caring hands. "If the right offer is made, that is."

Zebbidy nodded in understanding and told him to sit still so she could remove his stitches in his arm.

"I know they're a bitch, but if you won't let me take them out, you'll be making things worse."

"Zeb," he sighed, "that's what I _do_. I take a chaotic situation and make it worse."

"Is there a point to your . . . work . . . or do you just do it because you can?" Zebbidy questioned.

Sands raised his arms and held out his hands, palms up, imitating a set of scales. And avoiding her scissors-wielding hand as well, Zebbidy noted disapprovingly.

"It's all about balance, honey bunch," Sands told her simply. "Evening things out. Too much bad isn't right, but too much good isn't either. There has to be just enough of everything in order to keep the system from going outta whack."

"So that's your job," she stated. Her voice was very quiet.

Sands nodded.

"That's my job."

He leaned back against the headboard of his bed as Zebbidy fell silent. Sands decided to stay quiet, give her some time to process all he had said. He heard a shark intake of breath and realized it was his own when he felt the cool blades of Zebbidy's scissors slice through the catgut she had used to sew him back together.

"So" Zebbidy began, raising her voice slightly to cover his sudden gasp, "if too much bad isn't good, and too much _good _isn't good . . . where do you stand?"

He looked over at Zebbidy and saw that her expression was just as confused as his was, only hers shined with a healthy, eager light that he did not possess.

_What are you playing at, lady?_

"I only say that," Zebbidy hurried on to explain, "because it's clear that the evil inside you outweighs the angelic." She smirked.

Sands shrugged nonchalantly, narrowly avoiding being poked by Zebbidy's scissors.

"There are enough God-fearing religious freaks to balance out sinners like myself."

"No," Zebbidy cut across abruptly. "I didn't mean it that way. It's you as an _individual _I want to know about. Not everything's been evened out up there." She nodded pointedly to his head.

"That's why balance has to be kept, Zeb," Sands explained calmly. "I'm a prime example of how fucked up things can get if it isn't."

With nothing left to say, Zebbidy bobbed her head twice and deftly removed the remaining stitches from Sands' arm. The worst of the wound was gone, now. That was good. Sands would be going after Lynné soon and getting past Poisson's extraordinary security system and countless number of guards would be challenging enough without partially-healed injuries to worry about.

She too had a lot to concern herself with, Zebbidy knew. She sincerely hoped that she was not part of Sands plan to retrieve Lynné. The last thing Zebbidy wanted to do was enter Poisson territory. But returning to one of the Mafia don's many mansions was pushed to the back of her mind by a new burden.

Sands didn't sound as though he enjoyed his madness, but he didn't seem like he cared if it was there or not. The indifference could be a cover, Zebbidy imagined, but she doubted it. Then again, it was possible that the agent had simply learned to cope with his insanity. Perhaps he found it was easier to embrace the dementia rather than fight it.

_That seems wrong, somehow,_ she thought, casting the idea away like an unwanted piece of clothing. _It would make more sense for him to fight. Wage a war against his own mind, rather than give in…_

As she went about gathering the shreds of fallen catgut, Sands' words reverberated in her mind.

_'That's why balance has to be kept, Zeb. I'm a prime example of how fucked up things can get if it isn't._'

After quietly pocketing her scissors, Zebbidy rose from her seat on the bed, watching Sands as he punched in several buttons on his cell phone. And she thought that it, the idea of a person so obviously unbalanced working tirelessly to achieve balance, was riveting in a way she could not describe. She did not derive a perverse sort of pleasure from it, but the thought stirred up a feeling inside of her, and that feeling made her chest ache.

* * *

With a long, exasperated sigh, Lynné tilted her head so far back her neck creaked. Letting out another disgruntled breath, she snapped her neck back down. She narrowed her eyes at the door. For several seconds, she entertained herself by imagining an explosion that rocked the entire room and blew the God-awful door to bits. It was a fantasy, but it was amusing nonetheless. 

Three days, she counted. Three straight days with nothing but Cat, Harrington, Poisson's goons, and her royal bitchy-ness . . . and after they had finished with her there had been . . .solitude. It wouldn't have been so bad if it hadn't been _so _fucking _boring_. Only so many hours can pass before one finds themselves out of energy, out of songs, and out of ideas.

"God . . . if I weren't crazy already, I'd loose my fucking marbles," Lynné muttered aloud. As the seconds ticked by, she was loosing every scrap of sanity she had managed to hold onto. What did she care if anyone heard her? Screw 'em. Screw them all. The bunch of ignorant assholes could've at least given her a lava lamp to occupy her mind.

"They didn't even give me _that!_" she cried in outrage.

**_No consideration at all, _**the voice murmured, failing to stifle a laugh.

During the time she had been left alone in the room, Lynné had unhooked her handcuffs and then hooked them back together again to see if she could undo them twice. She had succeeded only to perform the same trick once more. And twice after that. It had been a last resort to pass the time, but it hadn't been entirely useless. She could now successfully remove a set of handcuffs in less than thirty seconds.

But the novelty of hooking and unhooking the cuffs had worn off after the fourth try. And now she was bored again. She had been for the past . . . four hours, she guessed.

The chair she was sitting on felt like a block of ice inside the meat locker of a prison.

**_Meat locker . . . _**the voice snickered sadistically. **_Y'know, I wouldn't be surprised if this wasn't a meat locker at one time._**

After a quick glance around the room, Lynné felt her eyebrows peak with interest.

"Hey . . ."

**_Oops, might wanna stop with the crazy act, Lynnie. Somebody's coming._**

"What?"

The voice said nothing. In front of her, the door, whose destruction she had pictured repeatedly, flew open and struck the cement wall with a loud '_crack_.'

* * *

"Hello, monsieur," Sands greeted brightly. He ignored the agitation that came through his phone. In his opinion, the man on the other end had no right to be annoyed. Just how the hell was he expected to walk into a trap when he didn't know where he was supposed to go? 

"May I ask who is calling?" the receiver asked in clipped tones.

"Am I to assume that a wealthy man such as yourself isn't hooked up with caller ID?" Sands chided, feigning bewilderment. "All right," he sighed disdainfully, "I'll level with ya. You – more specifically, your thugs – took something of mine and then informed an acquaintance of mine that you wanted _me _to retrieve it."

A pause.

There was a light note in Édouard Poisson's voice when at last he spoke.

"Ah. Agent Sands. I was beginning to wonder if I would hear from you."

"No time to spare, Eddie. It's been one of those weeks."

"How did you get this number?" Poisson wondered coyly.

"Now, now. Let's not get stuck on the details. I'd like to make this as simple as possible."

"Very well," Poisson agreed.

"Good. Now, as I'm sure you're well aware of, you've got one of my agents. A _top _agent, to be exact. I'd be happy to take her off your hands, because, let me tell ya, she can be a _wildcat _when she's deprived of a firearm for too long.

"This agent –"

"I'm curious to know, Agent Sands," Poisson interrupted casually, "why you say _agent _instead of _sister_. That is who Lynné Sands is, is she not? Your sister?"

Sands felt his jaw clench. True, it didn't surprise him that Poisson knew that Lynné was his sibling. If their last name hadn't given it away, their strong resemblance would have. Still, Sands had tried to keep the word 'sister' out of the conversation. If he didn't say the 'S' word, he figured, there was a chance that Poisson would believe that he, Sands, had no feelings toward Lynné. That the words 'sister' and 'brother' were simply labels they had been attached to for the past twenty-eight years. It seemed, however, that Poisson had seen through this. But there was still time to change his mind. The game wasn't over yet.

"I won't deny that she _is _my sister," Sands sighed, "but at the agency, things like family are meaningless. They're frivolous and get in the way of work, which, as you know, is what's _really_ important.

"And because my job is so important," he continued airily, "I have to have my agent back. Can't get anything done without her, I'm afraid."

"Really," Poisson murmured slowly. "Your job. If what you say is true, and your work _is_ as important to you as you claim, Agent Sands . . . then would you not have pushed everything aside in order to rescue the young lady who is so _vital_, she enables _you _to continue doing the work you claim is so important?"

Sands bit down on his lower lip. _Fuck. _That crafty bastard . . . So far he had caught every lie that had been thrown at him. But Sands wasn't about to give up. Not by a long shot.

"Well, Monsieur, I'll be straight with you," Sands said at last, sounding like a lawbreaker that had been caught in the middle of a crime. With false defeat on the edge of his voice, he continued, "I would have gone after the girl the moment I heard of her kidnapping . . . if it hadn't been for one tiny, miniscule, ridiculous thought that would _not _stop nagging me."

"And what would that be?" the Mafia don questioned, bored.

"How do I know if she's even alive?" Sands demanded. His tone morphed from discouraged to distrustful in a heartbeat. "Because, honestly, I'm not gonna drag my butt all the way out to your chateau only to find out that she's dead ."

"What are you saying?" Poisson demanded suspiciously.

The corners of Sands' mouth twitched into a smirk.

"Put her on the phone."

* * *

Like a demonic beacon, a symbol of hell itself, Ajedrez stood, a black silhouette against the eerie red glow that was emitting from behind her. She watched as her prisoner slowly slipped away from the world of the sane. Outside, she had heard the crazed ravings of the pale young woman. They had amused her greatly. The thought of Lynné Sands loosing control over her brilliant mind . . . What could be better than snatching away the very thing the woman strived for? 

Ajedrez smirked. And, of course, there was no chance she would cancel Lynné's torture just because the agent was reaching the edge of her sanity. She would merely . . . postpone it for a while. Taunting, however, was not out of the question.

"You know," she began quietly, "talking out loud to yourself isn't healthy."

"And I imagine having a demented thirst for vengance is?" Lynné retorted flatly.

"Your brother shot me and _you _killed my father," Ajedrez hissed, the teasing note gone from her voice. "When you think about all I have suffered through, no one would blame me for seeking revenge."

"_I_ would," Lynné mouthed silently.

"It would make my father proud," Ajedrez went on to say as she strode into the room, "to know that his daughter had sought out the ones who had wronged him and that _she _was going to avenge his death."

"Y'know . . ." Lyn sighed. She paused for a moment, rolling her shoulders in an attempt to dislodge them from their stiff position. When she spoke again she sounded remarkably sincere. "You have some _extreme _Daddy-issues, sweetheart."

Ajedrez's footsteps faltered. She halted all movement, staring down at the American agent in distrustful shock.

"I'm serious," Lynné insisted. "I'll bet you were ignored as a kid and when ol' Barillo _did _want you around, he expected too much of you. And too much pressure can do terrible things to a girl, believe me. I oughtta know."

Her captor made a noise that clearly illustrated her point: She wasn't buying the act.

"No, really," Lyn said calmly. "My dad was the same way, although, unlike you, I blew him off and didn't listen to a word he said. _You_, on the other hand . . . I'm guessing you took your father's words to heart. And he didn't have the nicest things to say about you, did he?"

Ajedrez scoffed, "You don't know what you're –"

"Talking about?" Lyn finished coyly. She grinned smugly. "Hit home, didn't I?"

Ajedrez's only answer was to send a searing glare of the utmost loathing in the agent's direction. Lynné met her gaze with gusto. An expectant smile spread across her fair face, she waited for the female drug lord's response. But Ajedrez continued to shoot fiery spears with her eyes, hatred boiling in her dark irises. For a moment, Lynné considered informing her that it had been more exciting _before _she entered the scene, but before the words had even begun to form in her mouth, the door banged open once again.

The weasel-like face of Alphonse Poisson was drawn with overexertion as it made its way into the small, square room. His body sagged as he leaned against the doorframe, gasping and sputtering for the air that was always out of reach. His chest heaved as though he had just run a marathon and by the looks of things, he had. Yet Alphonse was a man on a mission, and he would be damned if he didn't carry it out.

"Father sent me . . ." he managed to pant out. "I was . . . only one there . . . at the time . . ." Weakly, he raised his arm and, with a tightly clasped yet shaky hand, held out a sleek, black cell phone.

"Mademoiselle . . ." he wheezed. "For you . . . Not _you!_" he yelled suddenly as Ajedrez went to accept the phone. Sweat shining on his face in the dim glow of the light bulb, Alphonse narrowed his eyes and gave a curt nod towards Lynné. "_Her_."

It took its time, but at last it registered in Ajedrez's brain. Irritated, she snatched the phone away from Alphonse and shoved it roughly into the crook of Lynné's shoulder. The agent nearly had to jump to catch the phone before it fell to the ground. Sandwiching it between her shoulder and her ear and muttering a loud "Bitch" in Ajedrez's direction, Lynné none-too-comfortably struck up a conversation.

"Hello?" Her face suddenly lit with mild surprise at who was calling. "Well whaddaya know. I certainly haven't heard from you in a while. How's every little thing?"

"Swell, Lynnie, just swell," Sands answered sardonically. "And what have _you _been up to?"

A shrug would have gone nicely with her reply, but Lyn didn't want to risk dropping her phone. Besides, it wasn't as if her brother was in the room to witness it, anyway.

"Not much. Just got done chatting it up with one of your favorite people."

"Who?"

"Well," his sister drawled delicately, "I can't say here – I'm kinda treading on thin ice at the moment – but I'll give you a clue. Ready to hear it?"

"Go for it," Sands allowed unenthusiastically.

"Okay," Lyn said mischievously. Without warning, she threw back her head and let out a piercing cry that consisted of two infamous words: "_Aie caramba!_"

The second the words flew from her mouth, the phone toppled from its perch. Wide-eyed with panic, Alphonse made a mad dash to retrieve the object before it clattered to the rock-hard floor. Snickering in amusement, Lynné watched as the mobster caught the tiny cellular and held it up to his own ear. Alphonse cleared his throat importantly before beginning. From the doorway, Ajedrez rolled her eyes in disgust.

"There," Alphonse declared shortly. "Your sister is still alive. You heard her."

On the other end of the line, Sands picked up something behind Alphonse's boring rant. Something hidden. A tune. Humming. _Lyn _humming, he realized, intrigued. Though she chose not to sing the words, he recognized the melody instantly.

_Pussycat, pussycat, where have you been?  
I've been up to London to visit the Queen._

"She's safe," Alphonse was saying when Sands finally tuned back in. "And she will remain safe, provided you come to her rescue, of course."

_Pussycat, pussycat, what did you dare?  
I frightened a little mouse under her chair._

"Be quiet," Alphonse hissed at Lynné. She paid him no mind and continued to hum.

_Pussycat, pussycat, where have you been?  
I've been up to London to visit the Queen._

"I said be quiet!" Alphonse was livid, now. "Silencieux!" he commanded furiously. "Fermez votre bouche!"

He must have tried to clamp a hand over Lynné's mouth because the next thing Sands heard was a startled outcry of pain and several enraged French curses.

"Chienne abominable, dégoûtante . . ." he swore at Lynné. Turning back to his cell phone, Alphonse warned heatedly, "Agent Sands, if you wish for your sister to remain unharmed, you will tell her to keep her mouth shut and to hold her tongue!"

"How about this," Sands began with a quiet laugh, "You tell Lyn . . . tell Lyn . . . not to put any more mobsters in her mouth. She doesn't know where they've been."

* * *

_Geh, I should have had this up yesterday and would have had my dad not decided to take me to see _Phantom of the Opera. _Not that I'm protesting. As a matter of fact, I encourage you all to go out and see the movie/musical for yourself because it is _spectacular_. Beyond amazing, wonderful, a masterpiece. Then go out and buy the soundtracks from both the original Broadway production _and _the movie. And buy the book too: _Phantom of the Opera _by Gaston Leroux. It's an excellent read. Yes, I am m a pimp for PotO and I'm proud of it _u.u 

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**morph:** Blah, I tried several times to edit the ending so it didn't repeat itself like that, but it didn't work (checks that off as another reason she isn't fond of FFn). Glad you found the convo between Lyn and the voice amusing and the Canada comment too :) And don't worry; Cat and Ajedrez aren't going to get away with all they've done. u.u

**Dawnie-7: **The feeling's mutual as far as shots are concerned. Can't stand them, personally. It used to be because they hurt like hell but not it's mostly because I the damn doctors never tell you what's in them! If someone's injecting a foreign liquid into my body, I'd like to know what's in it, y'know? But anyway, moving on . . . Sands most definitely has a plan. Or a makeshift one, anyway. There are still a few details that need to be worked out before he goes into action.

**vanillafluffy: **'Bête' I was wondering if someone would pick up on that :) And that is one creepy telephone – much creepier than my lamp. Your phone actually _does_ something whereas the lamp just sits and looks evil. Ah well, my sister still insists that it's up to no good…

**Lynx Ryder: **I knew I could count on you to pick out several of the more…artistic lines in the last chapter :) If I'd have known that mentioning Liam would trigger a reaction like yours… Well, Lyn's going to give him what's coming to him, one way or another. He's certainly not going to get away unscathed. u.u Yep, she said the D-word. My guess is that Dr. Hoffman didn't have much experience with kids. Kids like Sands, at least. I'm so pleased to hear you thought that's how a kid would see a nurse! That's what I was going for :D And I'm glad you liked Sands' exact responses; I couldn't help but find them amusing :P Yep, Josey is Lyn's version of the little boy in OUaTiM as a way to make up for the fact that I didn't include him in TLWH as I would have liked to :( And it's sweet that you feel a little sorry for Vincent. He's not that bad a guy, really :)

**fanfiction fanatic: **Sorry if the repeated part was a bit confusing. Like I said, I tried fixing it but nothing happened. Demonic lamp…yes…I'll spare you the details. And I'm planning on some action in the next installment, just so you know :)

**DragonHunter200: **Glad you liked the dream and the concept of Sands with emotions. I figured that he would since he was only about six at the time. Young, slightly innocent…plus he's in a doctor's office and who feels comfortable there? Eh. Hate to disappoint, but there was and _wasn't _a point to Sands baiting Liam. He was trying to figure out if Liam was hiding anything and at the same time he was just messing with him because he was in a bad mood. You know how Sands can be ;D

_Want to apologize for the lack of Author's Thanks in the first installment of this chapter. Goddamn FFn cut it off the first time around. But it's all there now, so read and be thanked and then review!_

o


	45. Through the Window Once Again

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Forty-Five: **Through the Window Once Again

This just in: I wanna write a _Phantom of the Opera_ story. Like really badly. I've had the urge to do so since I was eleven and saw the show on Broadway. However, at the time I had no knowledge of (spitefully) FFn and by the time I discovered the website, the Phantom had been taken over by the Invader – although I _did _managed to write an IZ/PotO parody :D As I mentioned in the previous chapter, I recently saw the new PotO movie and fell in love everyone (except Raoul who has never been in my good books) all over again. In short, I have rediscovered my Phantom obsession and an eager to get started on a new story. Whether there will actually _be _one, I am not certain. I only have a few scenes, one character, and a makeshift plot in the works, so it's all kind of if-y for now. I finally have a title that seems to fit the story well: _Impromptu. _In any case, if I _do _get my priorities straight and write a PotO story, I will still continue this one. I'd sooner write a fic about Ashton Kutcher than leave a story unfinished. u.u

**

* * *

**

Stealth, in a way, was like ice-skating. A person needed to be poised, graceful, and, most importantly, flexible. One had to be able to cope with anything that was thrown at them. And if one were to fall, they had a choice: Stay down and loose or get back up again and win. That was the plan: Glide across the rink, get the gold, then slip away undetected.

_That's the plan, _Zebbidy thought as she deftly slipped a pair of Beretta 92Ss into the holster that she had looped around her hips. With a sigh, she leaned her head back against the seat of the car and gazed out of the window beside her. Stars winked at her from the black canvas that was the night sky. Darkness had fallen hours ago – around 5:00 p.m. – now it was half past ten. Pitch black, save for the shimmering stars. Zebbidy was grateful for her dark clothing.

Sands, however, was grateful for absolutely nothing, as he had reminded her throughout the entire drive. "I've got a straight-shot witch who is prone to seizures and . . . Fusco," he had said with a sigh. "Doesn't exactly comfort me, Zeb."

"So why not contact the CIA?" she had suggested.

The agent only had to give her a single look to get his message across. No. There wasn't a snowball's chance in hell Sands would give his employers a ring.

There wasn't a chance they'd make it out alive, either, Zebbidy could not help but think. Three people – one still recovering from injuries, another meek and jumpy, and one not an experienced marksman at all – all about to enter the massive stone fortress that stood before them. Even in the darkness, the hulking mansion was visible, its fair gray stone eerily illuminated in the feeble light.

Thinking of the maze of countless rooms and twisting hallways that lay in store, Zebbidy suppressed a shudder. And somewhere within that labyrinth they were supposed to find Lynné.

Impossible. It had to be. She knew Poisson and she knew of his insufferable paranoia. The Sara Winchester-eque mansion was only one example of it. The rest included the cameras that were located in every hiding place imaginable, the invisible tripwires, and the dogs. And the guards, of course, but they were more for show. They didn't actually protect Monsieur Poisson; they merely stood as a reminder that all trespassers would be shot on sight and _then _asked for identification.

Another shudder rippled through her slender body. _How _did Sands expect any of them to live through this?

Ah, but that was where Vincent came in, she reminded herself as she slid another handgun into the holster around her shoulder. The Mafia don's son had come through for them, after all, more than she would have ever expected. He had bribed the guards with cash and a warning that if they saw anyone that night, that they were to let the strangers pass and not ask questions. Amazingly, the guards had complied – they did not care for Poisson's over-the-top security system either, it seemed.

And the cameras, Zebbidy remembered, had been tampered with. Each one had been replaced with a video that was set to play the same sequence over and over again. If someone was going to break into the gargantuan house, none of Poisson's cameras – no matter _how _many there were – would detect them.

Her confidence somewhat restored, Zebbidy smirked and popped open her door. Both of her fellow spies were already outside. Liam was half consumed by the rear of the car, hastily searching the trunk for misplaced equipment, while Sands leaned casually against the vehicle, enjoying one last cigarette before taking on the Mafia. He did not acknowledge her. Arching an eyebrow, Zebbidy unearthed one of her own, handmade cigars and took up a place next to the agent, her eyes still fixed on the mansion in front of them. With a sigh, she dropped her gaze to the ground.

"Light me."

* * *

"This has gone on long enough." 

"Señorita, calmness, if you please –"

"_Four days_," Ajedrez accused, stabbing a finger at Édouard Poisson. "You told me _four days _–"

"_Possibly _four days, my dear señorita," the Mafia don corrected, keeping his voice as cool and light as a breeze. "While agent Fusco said it _was_ more than likely they would be here . . . he did not confirm it."

From his seat on one of Poisson's high-backed armchairs, David Moreau recalled the relaxed, agonizingly casual words he had spoken to the sister of the man Señorita Barillo was so intent on destroying. The very woman, Moreau remembered, who was hidden away, deep within the bowels of the massive house.

"Patience, mademoiselle," he advised the frustrated drug lord. "They _do _say it is a virtue."

Ajedrez rounded on him, her eyes blazing with fury. Unfathomable hatred was boiling inside of her, threatening to overflow, yet Moreau was unmoved. He had seen more rage expressed from another being who was a head shorter than la Señorita Barillo.

"_Cierre su boca!_" she hissed fiercely. The command ripped through the room, burning with so much barbarity the air itself was nearly scorched. Moreau's eyes widened slightly, but his gaze did not waver in the least. He continued to stare blankly into Ajedrez's smoldering eyes, his face impassive and stony.

"David," Poisson interjected sharply, slicing through Ajedrez's blazing fury and Moreau's glacial barrier. At the mention of his name, Moreau turned his head toward the noise, an action that seemed to offend Ajedrez.

"Señorita," Poisson continued, trying, though not very hard, to sooth the woman's uncontrollable temper. "Señorita, if it pleases you, I will send out a party to retrieve Agent Sands –"

"No," she protested roughly. "That's not good enough. I want him to come to me, blinded by his own arrogance just like he was the last time."

With that, she made her leave, the heels of her Stiletto shoes hitting the hardwood floor sharply, emitting a loud '_click, click click_' that echoed throughout the spacious room. Then, quite suddenly, she stopped, her back still facing her pair of male conspirators.

"But I am sick of waiting. If he does not arrive by midnight, send someone after him. Drag him out of his hidey-hole. He needs to learn that he can't avoid a problem forever."

* * *

It was impossible to determine exactly how long she had been trapped, nor how long it had been since a servant had been in to tend to the necessities: food, drink, bathroom . . . other than that, no one was permitted to see her. She was a prisoner in her own bedroom. Although, Joséphine supposed, her blindness could be considered a prison as well – when she had first lost her sight, the walls had begun to close in on her. She had panicked. But once she realized that she was never going to see again, she decided to cope and slowly became accustomed to the everlasting darkness. 

As a result, her hearing had become uniquely attuned to the world around her. Each object was different. No two rooms, animals, or people had the same exact sound. For the past three years Joséphine had been perfecting her ability to detect noises no one else heard. When she wasn't learning how to behave like a person with sight, that is.

Hanging her head n shame, Joséphine let out a small sigh. Sometimes she wondered why she bothered to pretend, why she acted as though she could see. True, she was only a child and children were always playing games of make-believe, but she knew that her façade had never been a game.

_Bump_

Joséphine's head shot up. Her eyes were magnified twice their normal size. She listened hard, straining with every fiber of her body to hear the sound again. It hadn't been imagined . . . Her mind wasn't playing tricks on her. She _knew _she had heard something.

_Bump_

She was gripping the edge of her bed so tightly the quilt threatened to tear. Leaning forward, she forced all of her attention on where the sound was coming from. Not the door, but the window. Or what she thought was the window. During the long stay, Joséphine had explored her bedroom, mapping out the placement of furniture and doors and windows, and so she felt fairly certain that her glare had met its intended mark.

The bumps had changed, suddenly becoming a quiet, scratching sound that only someone with Joséphine's exquisite sense of hearing could detect. It was impossible for her to have imagined the sound, now. She knew that she had heard it . . . It was so clear . . . She was leaning over so far now . . . an inch or even less and she would fall off of the bed.

With a tremendous '**_CRACK!_**' the window flew open. Joséphine tumbled backward onto her pale blue bedspread, her dark eyes wide with shock, her small chest heaving with fright.

"Jesus, Fusco, you think you could be a little louder?"

"Sorry, sorry!"

"Well for Christ's sake . . ."

"I said I was sorry!"

Joséphine sat up, hardly daring to believe that she wasn't dreaming.

"Sands . . ." a young female voice began uncertainly, "are you sure this is the right room?"

"All of the other rooms were _occupées_, Zeb."

"What if this one's also _occupé_, Sands?" the woman asked mockingly.

The man may have had a reply, but Joséphine found that she could not contain herself any longer.

"Monsieur!" she cried, leaping from the bed, her tiny arms outstretched.

When Sands found himself being attached by a sobbing whirlwind of arms and legs he was grateful he had had the sense to step inside before helping Zebbidy into the room. If he hadn't, he would have surely toppled out the open window the moment the little girl crashed into him. Instead he fell ungracefully to his knees to avoid slamming into the wall behind him. The child paid no mind, too busy heaving long, throaty sobs that clashed painfully with the gentle sounds of the night.

"Oh, momsieur, je suis désolé . . . Je suis désolé tellement . . ."

Sands cringed as Joséphine continued mumbling her barely intelligible apologies. Unused to having small children rushing to him for solace, he had no idea what to do when the girl flung her arms around his neck and buried her face in his chest.

"Je l'ai ratée..." Joséphine wept, her elfin body quivering uncontrollably. "Je vous ai ratés ... mais vous êtes venus en tout cas!"

He held his hands out awkwardly and looked to the others in confusion. To his annoyance, Liam was no where in sight, having disappeared into the shadows during Joséphine's heart-wrenching escapade. That only left Zebbidy. The young woman didn't have to be a mind reader to know what was going through Sands' head. The expression on his face was all too clear. The agent was clueless.

With a sympathetic smile, Zebbidy reached down and took a hold of Joséphine's quaking shoulders. Gently, she began to pry her off of Sands, but the child clung to the agent for dear life.

"Je suis désolé, monsieur!" the little girl sobbed pitifully.

Zebbidy narrowed her eyes as Sands attempted to edge away. Oblivious to them both, Joséphine continued to cry, thick, pearly tears streaming down her pale cheeks. Catching how her eyebrows were knit in disapproval, the agent looked up at her, fully intent on returning the glare. But when Sands met her eyes, he saw only concern and fear, not for him, but for the little girl whose tears were slowly collecting on his jacket. With a sigh of resignation, Sands lifted his eyes to the ceiling. This was taking too long . . . They needed to act fast and get Lynné out of captivity soon before they were found, but the kid wasn't letting go. He had no other choice.

**_Oh, Christ, you're not going to –_**

_In case you haven't noticed, the fucking kid has me in a death grip. The only way we're going to accomplish anything is if I get her to let go. Therefore, this is what we're doing. Unless you have another suggestions, of course._

The voice was silent, fuming in annoyance as Sands ignored its childish brooding. Cautiously, as if dreading the outcome, he raised his right arm – for Joséphine still maintained her vice hold on the left one – and laid his hand over the trembling back of the grief-wracked child.

"Hey," he murmured quietly as the girl continued to shake. "Kid . . . look –"

"Je ne peux _pas!_" Joséphine spat harshly. Both Sands and Zebbidy were slightly taken aback by the bitterness that had filled those words. For as long as they had known her, Joséphine had always been comfortable with her blindness. It seemed as though the past week's events had taken their toll on the child, hitting her like a merciless slap in the face. Upon hearing the sharp words, Sands found himself remembering how he had felt when he had uttered those words for the first time . . .

'_I can't _see, _fuckmook,_' he had hissed at the sweaty cabdriver. '_I have no eyes!_'

It had felt so strange to say that . . . to finally say that he was blind. To say it aloud was like admitting it to the entire world. Admitting that he was defeated, that he had played the game and lost, and that, as a consequence, he had lost his sight. He was blind. The words had felt foreign in his mouth, that first time. They were completely different compared to everything he had said before.

"Listen, then," Sands interrupted before the kid could break off in another fit of tearful hysteria. "You're upset, I know, but we have to get out of here as soon as possible, ya got that? Lynné's here . . . somewhere –"

"Elle est ici?" (She's here?) Joséphine gasped, her eyes widening in awe. "En ce moment?" (Right now?)

"_Yes_," Sands sighed, exasperated but relieved that the girl's crying had subsided for the time being.

"And we need to find her quickly because we don't want your grandfather to catch up with us," Zebbidy put in. "So we need you to calm yourself down if we're going to pull this off."

_That, _she added silently, _and a fucking miracle._

But at last Joséphine seemed to have come to her senses. She still clung tightly to Sands, but she no longer leaned on him, beside herself with irrepressible misery. Her sobs had been reduced to faint hiccoughs when she collapsed into Sands' lap. She sniffed pitifully and Zebbidy felt her heart go out for the child while Sands unconsciously rubbed the girl's back.

"Me prenez-vous avec vous?" (Are you taking me with you?) Joséphine asked quietly.

Sands felt Zebbidy's eyes on him, but he did not turn to look at her. He wasn't psychic, but he knew what she was thinking: Yes, of course they were going to bring the kid along. They _had _to. They may not have another chance to after they found Lynné, and they couldn't just _leave _her behind, could they? Was he really that horrible?

With a tired sigh, he rubbed his eyes, telling himself it was just the strain of the day that was making them burn. Ignoring the worried look Zebbidy was giving him, Sands stood, holding Joséphine in his arms as carefully as though she was a china doll.

"I take it she's coming along?" Zebbidy inquired, smiling slightly.

"Yeah, yeah . . ." Sands muttered distractedly. Shifting the child in his arms slightly, he examined the bedroom, searching intently and coming up empty. With one last disgusted glance around the room, he abruptly turned to face Zebbidy, his expression that of disgruntled annoyance.

"Where the hell is Fusco?"

* * *

Lynné was already awake when the door opened, but her visitor didn't need to know that. Keeping her head down and her eyes closed, she waited. One word, one single noise would give their identity away. If they took a step, she was confident that she would be able to place their name by the sounds their shoes made on the cold cement. If the footsteps were brisk clicks then it would be Cat. If they were slow, smug strides it was Ajedrez. Wimpish shuffling belonged to Alphonse. Loud, clumsy stomps meant it was just a mobster come to teach her a lesson. 

As it turned out, Lynné did not need to wait for the tone of footsteps to give an identity away. Her mysterious guest decided to make things easy for her.

"God, you look like hell."

Lynné shook her head, a humorless smile tugging at her lips.

"Just imitating you, Kitty."

"Bite me," Cat snapped. "You're screwed, you know that?"

"It would seem so, yes."

"Even if Sands comes it won't do any good."

"I didn't know you'd gotten him involved in this," Lynné informed her mildly. Her stepsister ignored her.

"He's just as fucked as you are if he shows up."

"Are you trying to intimidate me, Cat? Because it isn't having any effect."

"No?" her stepsister inquired lightly. "Maybe _she_ will."

On cue, Ajedrez strode into the room, hypodermic needle in hand.

* * *

Outside in the hallway, Liam Fusco held his cell phone up to his ear. Scanning his surroundings for any and all movement, he waited for the monotones ringing to end. 

"Hello?" greeted a man on the other end, his voice slightly muffled due to static.

"Yeah, it's me," Liam informed them in hushed tones. "Just thought I'd let you know . . . we're in."

* * *

_And the suspense builds as I leave off with a cliffhanger! Damn speech league is preventing me from even having a vague idea of when I'll post again. _:( _I'll be busy Thursday night because I'll be packing for an overnight speech meet, which lasts all day Friday and all day Saturday as well. _9.9;;; _It's annoying and tiresome and beyond frustrating, but once I get there it's…okay, so I'm lying. Anyway, I won't be able to write for three days straight because of speech league, but the good news is this story is coming down to the end. Although I probably shouldn't say that because we all know what happened the _last _time I started predicting the end date of a fic _:D;; 

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**Lynx Ryder: **FFn's been getting on my nerves as of late, but when they started pulling that "professionalism" crap they went too far. -.9; I've been wanting to relate Lyn to an angle and a truck driver for months and now that I was finally able to do it I'm pleased the line went over so well :) Really, what do men know? They only _think _they've got it all figured out u.u I wouldn't say that Sands is _proud _that wreaking havoc is his area of expertise…but I'm not gonna say he's unhappy with it, either ;D And I've got to agree; Sands is fucked up, but I can't say that's ever bothered me. While writing the part about Lyn picking and unpicking her cuffs I kept thinking '_God, Lyn, what is _wrong _with you?_' but that's kinda what confirmed my belief that she really _would _do that if she were bored enough. Aww, I'm glad you found Sands referring to Lyn as a personal possession sweet. I always thought that bit was cute :) Ajedrez _definitely _has daddy-issues. I was trying to figure out her character (cuz the movie doesn't give you much to go by aside from the fact that she's kind of a bitch) when I knew she'd have a bigger role in this fic. It seemed like Barillo was kind of like Sands and Lyn's dad (if their dad had enough power and cash, that is ;D) but that Ajedrez would have almost completely opposite feelings toward _her _dad. She had respect for her father and that she looked up to him and was constantly seeking to please him, but Barillo ignored her and pressured her too much when he _did _pay attention to her and _that's _kinda how _she _went crazy. Umm…anyway! I always marveled at how those two can be so calm, even though on the inside you know they're panicking ;) I don't want Ajedrez's presence to come as a shock to Sands either, but I'm afraid that looks like how things are going to turn out… :( The "mobsters-in-mouth" line was another one I've been wanting to pitch. Glad you liked it :) Damn FFn cut off the end of the last chapter, thereby leaving out the Author's Thanks -.9 I really need to find me a new web site… It's so wonderful to hear that you like PotO:D This isn't a request or anything, but it would be great if you wrote a Phantom fic, cuz I seriously have no doubt in my mind that your writing style fits it and that you'd do very well u.u

**Dawnie-7: **The feeling's mutual, or the addiction is, rather. You know I have a thing for flashbacks – hence why my fics are filled with them ;) "Aie caramba!" …I honestly have no idea where that came from, but I'm glad you got a kick out of it. I know I did ;D

**fanfiction fanatic: **Updating as soon as possible, as always :)

**morph: **Aww, you have no idea how sweet it is to hear that someone liked an OC over a canon-character? I'm touched, truly touched, that you like Lynné so much :) That's exactly what I'm feeling towards FFn right now. Clever, well-planned fics with a decent plot and great lines are being removed while bloody, horrible not-really-stories that don't even have proper grammar and spelling are allowed to stay. It's not right and I highly doubt this site's creator has read that many stories if they're kicking out perfectly good ones -.9; The time changing sequence in PotO was excellent, I'll agree. I just loved the transition and how smoothly all of the dust and grime was removed and the theater was restored to its original form…Plus, I've been in love with Erik (aka The Phantom – yep, in the original book by Gaston Leroux, he actually has a name :D) since I was like eleven… but still, I thought it was exquisite, overall. It's funny, cuz a while ago I actually thought about who would play Lyn in a movie. It would be hard to find someone, though, because not only would they have to be able to pull off the same demeanor as Sands, they'd need to be able to throw in a few other qualities that make Lyn _different _from her brother. Plus, they'd have to bear a strong resemblance to Mr. Depp (I can't stand it when there's a movie with a family that doesn't look anything like each other 9.9) because I've often described Lyn and Sands as being close to identical in appearance. In the end, I think Christina Ricci, maybe, could pull the role off nicely. I'm not sure how much she and Johnny resemble one another, but I've always liked her as an actress and she's even been quoted as saying that she's always thought of Johnny as a brother, so that would definitely add to the relationship Sands and Lyn have. u.u

o


	46. Ice Pick

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Forty-Six:** Ice Pick

Firstly, I would like to express my thanks to everyone who reviewed my _Phantom of the Opera _story. Yes, that's right, I went ahead and started it. I couldn't help myself. :D; So, thank you to everyone who commented. Moving on, now, you all remember, hopefully, how Lyn told Zebbidy their plan in Chapter Eleven? She said something along the lines of "All of us are playing Cowboys and Indians and _you're_ the one who's going to lure those no good savages out of their ivory towers." Well, the gang's doing battle with the Mafia in this chapter, hence the title. Also, I was watching a Johnny Depp movie when I got the inspiration for Lynné's scenes in this chapter. Props to anyone who can guess which movie it was :D!

* * *

"Monsieur Fusco?" Joséphine echoed hollowly, her eyes growing wide in disbelief. 

"Yeah," Sands replied offhandedly. "What about him?"

"Il est un traître!" (He is a traitor!) she cried at once. "Il n'a fait rien pour arrêter les deux agents qui sont venus pour recevoir Mademoiselle Lynné!" (He didn't do anything to stop the two agents who came to get Mademoiselle Lynné!)

"Agents?" Zebbidy repeated, sounding confused.

"What're you getting at, kid?" Sands demanded, though he tried to maintain a hold on his calm.

"Deux personnes de votre agence!" (Two people from your agency,) Joséphine tried to explain. "Ils sont venus à la maison. Ils étaient ceux qui a pris Mademoiselle Lynné!" (They came to the house. _They _were the ones who took Mademoiselle Lynné!)

"But Poisson said _he _had her," Zebbidy said, more puzzled than before. "He confessed to it."

"Doesn't mean a thing," Sands murmured quietly, almost to himself. "Agents'll turn rogue in a minute if cash is involved." He turned his head sharply towards Joséphine. "It was Fusco and who else?"

"Un homme a appelé . . ." (A man named . . .) The little girl paused, thinking hard. "Harrington? Oui, c'était cela. Et aussi," (Harrington? Yes, that was it. And also,) she breathed quietly, "une femme. Je ne sais pas qui elle était . . ." (a woman. I do not know who she was . . .) At once her eyes lit up with sudden realization. "Mais c'était la femme qui a appelé mon grand-père! Celui qui faisait des plans avec lui! Souvenez-vous?" (But it was the woman who called my grandfather! The one who was making plans with him! Remember?)

Sands nodded vaguely, distracted by his own thoughts.

'_Pussycat, pussycat, where have you been?_'_  
_

And then he knew.

* * *

It took a while, but eventually Joséphine calmed down enough for Sands and Zebbidy to take her out of her bedroom. Unbelievably, her terrible, ringing sobs had not given them away. No mobsters came barging into the room, guns raised. All was quiet. Feeling slightly relieved, Sands wasted no time in depositing the little girl into Zebbidy's arms – without the woman's consent. Ignoring Zebbidy's confused objections, Sands led the way out of the bedroom and down the hall. 

The little girl clinging tightly to Zebbidy's back, her fair arms encircling her neck and her young legs wrapped securely around her waist. Zebbidy shifted slightly, so as to make the child more comfortable (and to hopefully save herself from the backache she would surely be suffering from the next morning). It was strange walking through the pitch-black hallway with only Sands' shadowy outline as her guide. If she was not careful, she could trip, sending Joséphine and herself falling to the ground, which was not where she wanted to be if the Mafia found them.

Zebbidy twitched her nose, desperately wanting something other than the vague shape of Sands leading her into dangerous territory. If he replied, she could follow the sound of his voice. That was simple enough. Clearing her throat quietly, Zebbidy spoke up.

"Where did Vincent say Lynné was?"

"Basement," was the agent's short response.

"Cachot," (Dungeon) Joséphine muttered bitterly.

Zebbidy thought she saw Sands nod in agreement, yet in the darkness she could not be sure.

* * *

This was it. The end – _her _end. And there wasn't any 'happily ever after' that came before it. There never would be, because by the time anyone found her, she would be long gone. Not dead. Oh no, that would be too kind. That would be _merciful_. That would be the _decent _thing to do. She was truly insane if she thought her torturers were about to let her die quickly. 

So, this was it. The end. Goodbye cruel word – for it was cruel if it was letting her go like this: strapped to a fucking table, waiting for hell to freeze over. Yes, goodbye cruel world. Tata, adios, cheerio… Au revoir, Paris; we barely knew ye. Sayonara, everybody, Sands, Liam, the CIA . . . She wouldn't concern herself with them. By the time they found her, she would have already sung her swan song. So, adieu to everyone and everything she was giving up: Drinking, the Company, shoes, traveling, driving, her brother, her mind… So long, farewell, alviderzehn . . . goodbye.

**_Toodle-oo! _**the voice called cheerfully. **_Ciao! Partings are such sweet sorrow!_**

_Don't know why you're so excited, _Lynné thought darkly. _By the time this is over, you'll be gone._

The voice laughed. **_Empty threats, Lynnie, empty threats. You only _wish_ I'd leave, which, I'm afraid to say, is impossible._**

_Oh, I wouldn't say that, _she mused thoughtfully. _I'm sure I could drown you out just fine with a bottle of wine or some Acapulco Gold. Or a good ol' fashioned lobotomy. That'd do the trick, too._

The voice's teasing came to an abrupt halt. It sounded almost as though its breath had caught – if it ever breathed, which Lyn doubted.

**_What the hell are you saying?_** it demanded, its tone harsh and ragged.

_They're going to destroy my mind, _she told it sullenly. _That bitch is planning on taking every goddamn shred of dignity I have left. And the only thing that's keeping me from crying my fucking eyes out is the thought that I'll never hear you again._

**_You would be lucky, _**the voice snorted in disgust. Though it tried in vain, it failed to hide a single, panicky note. Lynné heard it, and she felt a surge of triumph. The voice knew that she was right and as much as it despised her, it prided itself in being her permanent tormenter. If Lynné lost every single grasp she had on reality . . . if she turned into a dazed, drooling vegetable with a glazed look in her eyes . . . then what would she have left? No feelings, no thoughts of her own . . . and the voice would cease to exist.

Smirking broadly, Lynné relaxed her body, feeling the tension that had filled every one of her muscles fading away. She was surprised she had been able to keep her body ridged at all. The sedative Ajedrez had injected into her veins was supposed to have put her at ease, softened her brain up for the big showdown, yet she had been on edge ever since the bitch had entered the room.

_Speaking of the bitch, _Lynné thought dryly. Ajedrez's caramel colored face loomed above her, and spread across it was a smile. It was the very smile Lynné detested so much; the smile that, she imagined, had been one of the last images her brother had seen on the Day of the Dead. She hated it more than the cartel heiress herself. So smug and so knowing . . . That smile, as Sands had once described to her, was like a poor imitation of the cool smirk that Lynné often wore.

Gazing up into Ajedrez's smoldering, rust-colored eyes, Lynné had to fight the boiling desire to spit right in her pretty face.

Ajedrez had noticed Lynné's look of revulsion and her smirk widened. Sitting on the chair beside her, Cat wore a similar expression as she absentmindedly picked at her cuticles. Turning her sights back to Ajedrez, Lynné nearly jumped when a shiny object caught her eye. In the cartel heiress's hand lay a long, slender instrument, it's sharp, needle-like tip reflecting in the dim light. Squinting up at it, Lynné could not hide her surprise and disbelief when she realized what it was.

_Holy shit . . . is that . . . an _ice pick?

"An ice pick," Ajedrez pronounced, noticing the agent's confusion. "Did you know," she began slowly, "that from the 1930s through the 1950s, these were all the rage? They were a particular favorite of physicians. They were used throughout the world to perform a simple yet popular procedure – one I'm certain you're familiar with."

Lynné hid her discomfort. She had a sick feeling about where this was headed, and the fact that she knew exactly what Ajedrez's lecture was about didn't help matters.

"You see, years ago, the brain was considered the root of all evil. And for those suffering from mental illness – which included chronic depression, anxiety, homosexuality, and Communism – the brain was _particularly _nasty."

"Are you inquiring that I'm a little loopy?" Lynné asked, sounding insulted.

Ajedrez smirked. "Tch. You're _crazy_."

"Borderline," Lynné corrected. She then tilted her head to one side and paused for a moment of consideration. "Although," she said thoughtfully, "it _has _been a few years since my last psychic eval., so…" she let out a short, quiet laugh and shook her head. "…your guess may be as good as mine."

Ignoring her, Ajedrez continued slowly. "So what doctors would do with their emotionally challenged patients was . . . calm them down."

"And how would they do that, I wonder?" Lynné asked, playing dumb.

She watched as, once again, the infuriating smile formed on Ajedrez's face.

"You may have heard," the drug lord continued, "reference to someone performing a lobotomy with an ice pick and assumed it was a joke." She laughed quietly. "It was not. An American by the name of Dr. Walter Freeman came up with the idea. His technique was to stick an ice pick –" she twiddled the silver tool in her hand for emphasis "— into the brain . . . through the eye socket . . . then hack the frontal lobe free by swirling it around and around."

She poised her treacherous ice pick, raising it above her head, ready to strike at any moment.

"Let's see," she whispered, her voice reduced to nothing more than a soft hiss of steam, "if _this _time . . . you don't scream."

This was it. At long last her end had come. Lynné knew that, no matter how much she begged, threatened, or coerced, she could not change her torturer's mind. Ajedrez was like herself in the sense that whatever she wanted, she received. And right now she had her sights set on physically attacking Lynné's frontal lobes. In the light of the single watt bulb, Lynné saw the tip of the ice pick winking down at her.

In spite of herself, she tensed, squeezing her eyes shut, waiting for the moment when she would kiss her mind goodbye.

The blow never came.

At that moment, for the umpteenth time, the door flew open.

In staggered the gaunt, panting form of Liam Fusco. Seeing her partner like this (so disheveled in his rumpled black shirt and tousled hair with sweat trickling down his pink face) almost made Lynné laugh, but the drugs appeared to have cost her the ability of her mouth. Besides, she figured she couldn't possibly look any better.

"What do you want?" Ajedrez demanded, bored and barely acknowledging Liam. The ice pick was still hovering above her captive's head. In return Lynné felt her resentment for the woman grow. True, Fusco had turned out to be a conniving, traitorous leech, but he had manipulated her – _her_, damnit! – so the little prick deserved some credit. And even _she _looked at Liam while she was speaking to him.

Liam took in a recovery breath and then began. "They're here. I tried to call, but I couldn't get through to you." He shrugged. "Thought you ought to know."

Delight flashing in her eyes, Ajedrez's lips curled into a diabolical smile. Cool as can be, with no regard for the bruised and bloody agent behind her, she laid the ice pick down – it's steel form creating a loud _click _as it made contact with the table – and she strode over to Liam Fusco and caressed his shoulder with her long fingers.

"Where are they now?" she purred alluringly, toying playfully with Liam's blonde ponytail. The agent in turn stiffened, making an odd, strangled noise in the back of his throat as he tried not to back away. From her position on the rock-hard table, Lynné rolled her eyes.

_Such a ladies' man…_

"You and _la mujer de gato_ stay here," Ajedrez commanded, still maintaining a low, seductive tone to her voice, "while I go and give him a proper welcome."

At once, Cat shot up from her chair, looking appalled.

"You're leaving? _Now? _But – but we were all ready! You were going to perform the frontal lo–"

"As much as I don't want to," Ajedrez said tersely through gritted teeth, "I'll have to postpone the operation. But if you're so worked up over it, _gato_ –" she smirked at the name " – think of this: When I return, there will be a _double _procedure. Just remember that and do as you're told."

Without another word, she turned and exited the room, hips swinging all the way. A second later, the door closed behind the haughty drug lord with a resounding bang that sent Lynné's head spinning. The moment she regained her stability she moved her gaze from the door to the pair of traitors standing beside it. Completely ignoring Cat, whose head looked ready to explode, Lynné threw Liam a glare with the deepest, most fearsome loathing she could muster.

"You dick."

* * *

"Monsieur?" a tentative voice called out. It was soft, barely audible, yet the vast darkness of the mansion that had temporarily rendered him blind made his hearing sharper than ever. He turned around, spying Joséphine's barely visible form draped over Zebbidy's shoulders like a pale, ghostly backpack. 

"Monsieur?" the child asked again in the same hushed tone.

"What, kid?"

"Je pense . . . j'ai entendu . . ." (I think . . . I heard . . .)

All at once, Sands was tense. In a single instant, every muscle in his body seized up. His whole body went still as he strained to pick up on a sound . . . any sound. His hearing had been enhanced, so if the kid had picked out something in the darkness, he could too.

**_Easier said than done, _**the voice chastised and silently Sands had to agree. The tiniest noise threw his senses into a frenzy. At the slightest din, alarm bells went off inside his head. Every sound, every gust of wind, every creak of the expansive mansion pushed his irritation closer to its limit. A dangerous game to play; his patients were already nearing the end. And the recent news of Fusco's betrayal hadn't helped matters.

**_And then there's Cat, _**the voice reminded him with sadistic mirth.

_She's not smart enough to be involved with this._

_**Isn't she? You don't know that for a fact. And even if she isn't . . . **_The voice paused, letting its words coil around him like heavy smoke. **_You know Cat. For a little bit of power, money, and maybe some revenge . . . she'll turn into a dog and start performing back flips._**

Sands said nothing in return, but in his heart he knew that the voice was right.

* * *

Rosa Hernandez had long since learned her place in the world. She had grown up the daughter of a chef who owned a grubby little butcher shoppe that made just enough money to get by. And sometimes the meager wages were not enough to supply everyone in her large family. Her mother – a name always spoken with scorn at her hacienda – had been a prostitute, plain and simple. She had died young – shortly after giving birth to her daughter, in fact. But the death had never had much of an impact on the young Rosa. It wasn't as though her mother had been around long enough to leave any kind of maternal impression on her child. She had grown up in her father's smelly butcher shoppe with her him, seven siblings, both grandparents, and no mother. 

Growing up poor – _that _had had an impact on her life. Her life had been gurgling, cruel, and unfair. She had been mistreated whenever she walked the streets as a child, looking for lost change or peddling the poorly made trinkets she and her siblings had crafted. Once, when she was ten, a group of boys – only a few years older than her – had jumped her, demanding the small amount of money she had managed to accumulate. Unable to fend for herself, Rosa had no choice but to watch them walk away with satisfied smirks on their faces and all of her hard earned cash in their pockets.

Funny how, eleven years later, she would find herself underneath those very same boys. Only this time _she _would be the one walking away with a healthy sum of money. Shamefully, when she had reached the age of seventeen, she had chosen a life of prostitution – the same disgraceful path her mother had walked. Her father had been furious at the thought of his daughter selling her body, but his yell and curses had quieted somewhat when he saw just how much bread Rosa was bringing home.

Eventually, she had created quite a name for herself. It was not a name she was particularly _proud _of, but it brought in enough cash for her to live a comfortable lifestyle. Instead of tending to the "needs" of somewhat wealthy business men and making a living off of _their _salaries . . . she was suddenly giving pleasure to rich (far richer than the business men) drug lords and mobsters. That was how she met _him_, the man who would take her away from her tin box of a home, away from her family, away from Mexico. Adrián had been on top of her, his body gyrating in time with hers, when he had popped the question. It wasn't a proposal of marriage, nor was it really a question. It was more of a request – though it sounded like an order – to join him and his fiancée, Ajedrez (who knew nothing of Rosa at the time) in France.

Puzzled, Rosa had pushed him away, arching her expertly drawn eyebrows in question.

"What do you mean?"

"Ajedrez needs to lay low while in Paris," Adrián had explained before diving in for another kiss. "So do I . . ." He gasped, adrenaline coursing throughout his body as he took her. "But . . . we need someone to get inside . . . so that's where you come in . . ."

"You want me to be your pawn?" Rosa demanded, her blue eyes narrowing suspicion. "You want me to _act _for you? How much? Being someone's puppet doesn't come cheap."

He swooped down on her again, ravishing her neck and collarbones with his lips, cupping her bosom with his left hand while the other danced through her ebony tresses.

"Adrián . . ." Rosa had growled, letting her impatience show.

"Five hundred a week," he had answered at last. "That good enough for you?"

She remembered smirking coyly. "It's a start."

Since that day, she and her "employer" had had to keep a low profile, making sure not to arouse Señorita Barillo's suspicions. Rosa had always thought the young woman a little haughty for her own good, but was also very conniving and often obtained knowledge that a person would ever expect her to have.

Which was why Rosa was currently hiding behind the couch that sat in Édouard Poisson's immaculate living room. Apparently Adrián's little honey had gotten word that her object of vengeance (a Agent Sands) had finally decided to show his ugly face. A face that wasn't so ugly, Rosa saw as she peered around the corner of the green velvet couch. Even in the abysmal lighting she could make out his finely chiseled face, full lips, and well toned – if slightly thin – body. Pity she would have to put a bullet through that hansom mug of his, but such was life.

Her fingers encircling a semi-automatic pistol, she crouched even closer to the ground, a scowl deepening on her pretty face. That stupid _child _had heard her. How? She knew it was said that the blind had exceptional hearing, but Rosa had barely made a sound, if any sound at all.

No matter. She knew she would have to come out of hiding eventually. This was simply a little sooner than she had originally anticipated. She flipped her dark, silky hair over her shoulder, wanting to look her best when she presented herself to the trio of enemies. She slipped her index finger through the trigger of the gun. Readying herself to shoot, Rosa pulled the hammer back and it let out a _click_. The noise was soft, nearly inaudible, but in the silence of the room the _click _rang with all the fanfare of an orchestra constructed of nothing but bellowing trumpets. Rosa looked up and found herself staring into the black, merciless cavity of a .22 rimfire.

It was not her shifting that had given her away. Nor was it her sighs of impatience. It was that single, soft, yet resounding _click _that sealed her fate.

* * *

_Hahaha! I didn't expect to have this up today, either! Oh, the next chapter is gonna be good; I know it. There's a scene in it that I have been planning for some time now. I find if very amusing and hope you all do, too. Oh and don't be shy to check out my _Phantom of the Opera _fic; I encourage it, actually _:D 

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**Dawnie-7: **Cat's return is never one to be anticipated, at least I hope not ;D But I'm glad you liked the bit with Sands showing some (dare I say it?) kindness towards Josey.

**morph: **I can tell that there were many questions going through your mind while reading the last chapter, so I hope this one answers each of them very well :) Good to know that somebody knew the Phantom has a name aside from 'Opera Ghost' and 'The Phantom,' no thanks to Andrew Lloyd Webber on that part -.9 Sorry, it's just that was pretty much the only thing that I didn't like about the musical. Like you I was audibly sympathizing with Erik while watching the movie "Oh, poor Erik…" And I was trying (not very hard, mind you) not to crack up whenever he had caught Raoul in his noose at the very end. Was it just me or did he keep pulling the rope almost every time it was Raoul's turn to sing? XD And I've always had a thing for spooky people, too (pretty much bad guys in general 9.9;) so don't worry. Aww, it so sweet that you were responding in French. And, yes, Sands of all people should have thought twice before telling a blind person to look. Admittedly, it took some serious consideration before I finally decided on having Sands pick Josey up. Like you, I just couldn't picture it. But I figured that, if the situation was hurried and dire enough and he really had no choice, that he _would _just pick up the kid and go. And he handed her off to Zebbidy, anyway, so it wasn't like he was holding on to her the entire time. I've yet to see a Christina Ricci movie that I didn't enjoy, so I'm rather confident that she would make a good Lynné. Glad to hear you agree :D

**Lynx Ryder:** Calming people down has never been one of Sands' strong points, let's face it ;) Zeb's one of those people who's willing to do anything for someone, even if they aren't the nicest person in the world (namely Lyn). And I assure you, Sands will not lose his sight again – not if I can help it, anyway ;) Pleased to hear you think I have Ajedrez down, especially since she's not the easiest character to write. Josey's a tough kid, despite her frail appearance, but sometimes emptions get to be too much and she can't hold them back any longer, poor dear. As much as he dislikes kids, I'm fairly confident that Sands wouldn't do anything to harm Josey.

Sands: Not intentionally, anyway. u.u

Sidney-.9 (choses to ignore that and moves on) I'll agree that, even if it was in just a figurative sense, Sands should have known better than to say 'look' to a blind person, especially if they were in as distressed a state as Josey was. Normally, I think he would just leave her where she was, but if things go awry then there may not be a chance to go back and recover Josey _and _escape as well. So I figured that _Sands _would figure it would be simpler just to bring her along. And I don't mind if you melt as long as you don't mind if I join in ;D

Sands: Glad to know I still have that kind of effect on people.

Sidney: 9.9 Cat seriously needs to be taught not to piss around with Lyn or her brother. Luckly, in a few chapters, she most likely will :D And I cracked up at you calling Liam a little worm. Cuz he is one. Totally.

Liam: (hiding under the desk) I'm a worm with good reason!

Sidney: 6.6 Try telling the reviewers that, why don't you? Although I doubt you'll get to say much before they castrate you…

Liam: (does the pleading 'Be-Sad-For-Me' look) 8'(

Sidney: (arches an eyebrow but, other than that, remains stoney-faced)

Liam: (grumbling angrily) You've been hanging around Sands too much…

**fanfiction fanatic:** There will be much action and some pain on Liam's part in the next chapter, rest assured. :D And I encourage you to go see PotO. It is an excellent film u.u

**LadySparrowJack:** So relieved to hear that Sands seemed in-character – you know how much I worry about that ;D Just everything you said in your review was very reassuring. I think if you checked out the PotO fanfic board, you'd definitely see that you and I are not the only ones who sympathize for poor Erik :) Sadly, I have yet to obtain a copy of Susan Kay's _Phantom_, although I hear nothing but good things about it. My PotO story's up, by the way, if that interests you at all :)

o


	47. The L Word

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Forty-Seven:** The L Word

For all you Liam-haters out there, this is the chapter in which he finally gets what's coming to him. For all you Cat-haters…well, you've still got one more chapter to go, sorry. Ajedrez-haters – your loathing for the woman will only increase after this chapter. Lyn-lovers, however, should be very amused by the time this is over. ;)

* * *

"I've been meaning to ask you," Lynné began, sounding calm and collected despite the dire situation she was in. "How do you fit in to all of this, Fusco?" 

Liam winced outwardly. If Lynné had reverted back to calling him by his last name alone, then he had truly crossed the line. As for her question . . . how could he answer that? It wasn't that he couldn't come up with an explanation. He had one already formed in his mind; one he had been rehearsing for weeks. The only problem was sitting in the chair to his right. Cat. If he was going to level with Lynné, then the other agent needed to go.

Catherine sat in her chair, arms and legs crossed, swinging her foot in agitation. Having grown bored with examining her fingernails, she had taken to glaring at Lynné with the utmost revulsion. The agent in turn ignored her and looked up at Liam expectantly. But when her former partner failed to answer, Cat decided to lend a hand and speak for him.

"I can answer that," she announced, her shrill voice bouncing off the cement walls of the square room.

"Good for you," Lynné responded casually, still keeping her eyes on Liam. "Unfortunately, no one cares at the moment."

Liam swallowed hard, a sweat breaking out on his forehead. Beside him, Cat narrowed her sharp eyes in annoyance.

"He was tired of you," she continued, brushing Lynné's comment aside. "Tired of you treating him like an idiot, insulting him, and constantly ordering him around –"

"Honey, he's lost when he _doesn't_ have someone there to tell him what to do," Lynné sighed in exasperation. "And as far as insulting him goes…well, it's not really an insult when it's _true._"

By the door, Liam shifted nervously as he watched the quarrel of the two stepsiblings slowly progress into a fight. He cringed, knowing that, if he didn't interject, it would soon turn into an all-out brawl. And Cat, having not been strapped to a table, would have the upper hand.

"Why are _you _here, Cat?" Lynné inquired suddenly. "I wouldn't think someone of Édouard Poisson's power would have much use for _you_."

The disdain, the spite, every bit of insolence Lynné felt for her stepsister hung in that single, condescending word. _You_. Liam knew that by simply looking Catherine from the side that Lynné had hit something. A weak spot, perhaps. Again he found himself marveling at how skilled his partner was – how she could upset a person by uttering a single word. A useful gift, and also a deadly one.

He didn't know when Cat had made her move, but suddenly she was at the table, standing over Lynné with the sinister ice pick hovering threateningly over her head. Catherine's dark, beady eyes had been reduced to thin slits as her face contorted in unfathomable fury. Her lips pulled back in an unbearable sneer to show every bleached tooth, Cat snatched up a fistful of Lynné's hair, twisting it painfully in order to keep her stepsister's head in place. All the while, her bony fingers were still securely twisted around the ice pick.

"You want to know _why _I'm here?" she demanded vehemently. "Because of _you_. Because I have had to suffer your taunts –" she took in a shuddering breath "—and your achievements for twenty-four _years_. I've had to live in the shadow of my _younger stepsister_ for twenty-four years. And I'm tired of it."

"Killing me won't make you feel better about yourself," Lynné whispered harshly.

"Oh, but it'll certainly help," Cat returned with sadistic joy. "I've got three years that can prove that."

"You thought I was dead…" Lyn murmured distantly.

"Yes," her stepsister hissed. "That day when they finally labeled you a lost cause was one of the most satisfying days of my life."

"Satisfying?" Lynné repeated, confused.

"Oh, yes," Cat replied offhandedly as she tapped Lynné's frontal lobes with the tip of the ice pick. "What? You didn't think Barillo found out about you all by himself, did you?" She gave a loud, snort of a laugh and continued quietly. "No. He had help."

Like a slap in the face, it all connected in Lynné's mind. Her face fell, wiped clean of all emotion.

"You…"

"Yes," her stepsister announced proudly. "_Me_."

Anger like never before building up inside her, dark eyes burning with fiery hatred, Lynné growled, "Was it your idea?"

She did not need to further elaborate the question. Cat knew exactly what she meant and she smiled impishly.

"Your leg? Of course. Why else would Barillo have wasted the time? He wanted to kill you, but I interjected. 'She'll die, anyway,' I told him. 'At least this way, she'll get to wallow in her own self-pity first.'" Her thin lips pulled into a smirk, Cat looked down at her. "Sure enough, for three years we all thought you were dead."

Swallowing the raging lump in her throat, Lynné forced herself to continue.

"And Sands? Was that your doing as well?"

A cruel smile still playing on her lips, Cat cocked her head inquisitively.

"Oh yes…" she breathed softly. "I was happy for about a year after your supposed _death_, but something wasn't quite right. I knew immediately what it was and decided to take care of it. So I formulated a plan. Sands and I were both stationed in Mexico – him as the operation's controller and me as a simple spook. A hunter-gatherer, if you will. So I hunted and I gathered, and soon I learned about this nice sum of money Armando Barillo was intending to award General Marquez with for a job well done.

"I knew, after twenty-four years of living with your brother, that he would find this information _very _interesting. So I informed him of it and, sure enough, he was intrigued." She shook her head, laughing quietly. "Bastard nearly pissed himself. But he kept calm, for the most part, pretending that he could care less about the money when in reality he planned on stealing it for himself –"

"He planned on _stealing _it," Lynné interrupted bitterly, "so he could get _me _out of Mexico without the CIA knowing about it. He was planning to take some of it for himself, I'm sure, but the main idea of the plan was to help me."

To Lynné's chagrin, Cat chose not to acknowledge her interjection and continued as if her stepsister had never spoken.

"Miss Barillo was very helpful – reluctant, but helpful. She agreed to lure Sands into our trap, get him to trust her, and then…at the right moment…let it hit him right in the face – quite literally, actually. Dr. Guevera was _very _skilled with that drill of his."

Lynné snorted. "Not really. He was rather _sloppy_, if I remember correctly. And I think I _do_, considering how many hours I spent cleaning out Sands' empty sockets… Besides, I don't think Guevera was all that skilled in the ways of surgery. After all, Sands got his eyes back, didn't he?"

"Was that idea yours too, Kitty?" she asked suddenly. "Removing Sands' eyes?"

To her surprise, Cat shook her head, the smile still in place.

"No. That was all Ajedrez's doing."

As if she had expected this, Lynné nodded, a faraway look in her eyes.

"I should've known… You're not that creative," she told Cat calmly.

Instantly, her stepsister's twisted amusement vanished, replaced by the familiar rage that usually marked her face. With a feral growl, Cat gripped the ice pick tightly in her hand and raised the tool above her head, prepared to plunge it deep into Lynné's eye socket.

"I don't care if she said to wait," she muttered furiously, her words coming out in short, brutal gasps. "I've waited too long alread –" She stopped, her sentence hanging in midair, never to be finished. A glassy film covered the manic glint that had once filled her eyes. Catherine staggered and then she fell, the ice pick still clutched tightly in her hand as her head connected with the floor and a sickening crack filled the tiny room.

Lynné craned her neck upward to see the cause of Cat's sudden feinting spell and saw Liam Fusco staring down at her stepsister's unconscious body, holding one of the metal folding chair in his hands.

* * *

Standing over the lifeless body of a young, Spanish beauty, his gun smoking, Sands felt no remorse. Noting new. He would have been concerned if he _did _regret killing the woman – Rosa Hernandez. He was certain that's who the corpse belonged to. Even in the darkness, he could make out her startling blue eyes. Eyes that neither he, nor anyone else would have the pleasure of seeing again. But that was one of the consequences of shooting a person in the face. 

**_Pity, _**the voice sighed. **_Bet she would've been a good lay. Well, you still have Zebbidy_**.

_What? Where are you _getting _this shit?_

_**What do you expect me to think after the past week? You know…how you spent three…**_**four _nights in a bed…alone…except for Zebbidy?_**

_Her? She's the reason for the alluring comments? _

The voice tsked in disapproval. **_Speaking so lowly of her after she was so sweet and took care of you in your hour of need. You make it sound like she means nothing to you._**

_That's because she _doesn't _mean anything to me, _Sands informed it dryly.

**_Are you sure? _**the voice prodded. **_Take a good, hard look at that statement, Sheldon, before you agree to it._**

And then his head became quiet.

"Who was it?" asked Zebbidy, her reddish eyebrows peaked with interest and concern. He could make out the pallid, frightened face of Joséphine Poisson staring at him over Zebbidy's shoulder. The little girl was obviously shaken, but she was trying her best not to let it show.

_What the hell are you getting at? _Sands demanded. His tone was cool, but the warning that dwelled within his words was all too prominent. _If this is an attempt to wheedle me into a confession –_

_**No confession, **_the voice insisted airily. **_I'm only curious to know what you're feeling for her._**

_The usual: nothing. Sociopath, remember?_

_**Callous, maybe, but not sociopathic. Remember, I can see what's in your head, so I know what you're feeling.**_

_Then why won't you get off my back about it?_

_**Because I want to hear you say it, **_the voice hissed softly. **_Tell me: What are you feeling for her? And don't say 'nothing' because I know she has a fraction of a meaning to you. So what is it? You're fond of you, aren't you?_**

_No._

_**You care about her…**_

_…no._

_**Trust? **_the voice ventured.

_Yeah, especially after the last time, which worked out so well, _Sands commented sarcastically. _I think not._

_**I know you at lest **_**like _her, _**the voice continued to say.

_I _tolerate _her, _Sands replied sharply, _and that's all you're getting. _

"Sands?" Zebbidy asked again, and this time she began walking towards him.

"Hernandez," he answered shortly.

"_Rosa _Hernandez?" She gasped and a hand flew to her mouth when she saw the body and the mangled, bloody ruin that was once a beautiful face.

"Yeah," Sands murmured gruffly. With one last look at the oozing corpse, he turned on his heel and gestured for Zebbidy to follow.

"Au cachot?" Joséphine asked.

Sands gave a sharp nod and continued through the living room and out into the hallway. The kid was right, he admitted as he led his small party down the gloomy hall whose fearsome shadows would not have looked out of place in a horror movie. He was following Vincent's instructions and taking them downstairs where his sister would hopefully be. To the basement. To the dungeon, indeed.

* * *

Liam had wasted no time in loosening the straps that bound Lynné. Stepping back, he watched with agonizing anticipation as his partner sat up and rubbed her sore wrists. Liam winced when he saw that the handcuffs had bruised them and how the leather straps on the table had rubbed the bruises raw. He tried not to let his emotions show as a spear of guilt rammed itself into his heart. 

"What _are **you **_doing here?" Lynné suddenly asked, sliding her small frame off of the frigid table, taking care of her missing leg.

Liam didn't answer but merely watched as his partner – even on one leg – stooped to retrieve the ice pick from Cat's still miraculously vice-like grip. In no time she had erected herself once again and was standing – rather, just managing to maintain her balance in front of Liam.

"So tell me, Fusco," she whispered, her voice taking on a sultry edge that he had heard often before. "Why are you here? Was Kitty right? Did I finally push you over the edge with my commands and insults?"

He shook his head vigorously, not because he was bending under her strong intimidation, but because he was forcing himself to be truthful with her from now on.

"What, then?" Lynné prodded, wobbling ever so slightly on her only leg.

"I-I did it for you," Liam stammered. "_Really_," he insisted seeing how unimpressed Lynné was. "Be-because there was no other way to get inside – and you knew that! You knew the operation was taking too long and that the Company was beginning to get annoyed." He swallowed the build up of mucus in his throat and hurried on, "So…so I – well, when I went to meet with Stephan Damiano that day, Catherine and Harrington were there and they were talking to Poisson."

Lynné arched a skeptical brow.

"And I knew that they were planning on doing business with Poisson and that they had sold you out, so I…I decided to join them – undercover," he added quickly.

"And you let them kidnap me," his partner stated flatly.

"It was the only way," Liam explained lamely. "I swear, Lynné, I didn't want any of this to happen to you. And I never knew Ajedrez was involved, either. Not until a few days ago, or else I would've told you right away what was going on, I swear to it." He looked into her wan, emotionless face – still beautiful despite the slight discoloration to her lips and eyes – and took one last stab at making amends. "Please, Lynné… _please_…You've got to believe me…"

She stared at him for a long moment, sizing him up with those dark, calculating eyes. What went through her head during those agonizing seconds, Liam could never fathom. All he knew was that the moment Lynné opened her mouth to speak, his fate was sealed. "How unfortunate for you," she said slowly, "because even if you _are _being truthful and really _do _feel sorry for your actions… no apology can make up for what you've done."

Quick as a flash, she lunged, digging the ice pick deep into Liam's shoulder and twisting it painfully. Overcome by shock and agony, Liam's instincts acted before his thoughts did, and he lashed out, gripping Lynné by her tiny shoulders. He could practically feel her flesh turning purple beneath his strong hands. In an instant, Lynné was on the floor with the wind knocked out of her. As she fell, the ice pick slipped from her hand and tumbled and rolled, clattering along the cement floor until it came to rest harmlessly in a corner.

From her place on the floor, Lynné looked up at him, shock and… approval? …written on her face. Through her gasps she let out a weak laugh and raised her index finger to shake at him.

"Now… I thought," she panted faintly, "that you weren't in…to this kinky…kinda stuff."

"Yeah, well," Liam muttered nervously, "I lied."

"Oh," Lynné sighed, nodding in realization. "Well…"

The next thing Liam knew, she had swung her only leg out and knocked him on his back. His ankles throbbed where Lynné had kicked them, but Liam didn't have time to concern himself with pain. Lynné had straddled him and pinned his wrists to the ground before he ever knew what had happened. Her eyes smoldering with unfulfilled lust, Lynné leaned down and breathed huskily into his ear:

"So did I."

And she kissed him, slamming her lips into his and showing no mercy.

* * *

Ajedrez poked her head around the corner only to pull it back again. The moment she had peered down the hallway, a bright sphere of light had momentarily caught her off guard as it came bobbing towards her. 

Uttering a silent curse, she plastered herself flat against the wall behind her. She raised her gun and turned so her shoulder was pressed against the wall instead of her back. Tension radiating off of her finely curved body, Ajedrez whipped around the corner, gun positioned in her outstretched hand…

…and collided with her lover.

"_Adrián!_" she hissed angrily.

"Mi querida, we have no time," her fiancé said in a rush. "Your bastard of a boyfriend is here."

"I know _he's _here," she shot back furiously. "Where is he?"

"I heard gunshots," Adrián tried to warn.

"Where _is _he?" Ajedrez demanded, urgency and fury blazing in her brown eyes.

Adrián swallowed, knowing that his 'lover' was not to be trifled with at the moment. Not that he normally played games with her. "The just left the living room," he told her honestly.

"For where?" she snapped in annoyance.

His voice was hollow when he answered her. "The basement."

* * *

No time was wasted after he threw open the door. All it took was seeing his sister in the arm's of a traitor and his guns were out. Ignoring Zebbidy's terrified outcry, paying no mind to Lynné's startled expression, Sands cocked his pistols and aimed them directly at Liam's head. 

"Drop her."

There was no sarcasm to his voice, none of the usual cool drawl. Only fury shone through his words, cold and deadly. The thirst for vengeance was fierce. He was wrung dry from anger and determination and was now relying only on adrenaline to get by, but the burning desire to kill was strong. It filled his mind, turning carefully calculated thoughts into rash decisions. The need for revenge had begun to uncoil, and it throbbed painfully with every second he wasted.

His mouth had turned to dust; his tongue was suddenly made of sandpaper that grated horribly against his jaw, shredding his gums. They threatened to bleed and he wondered that, when his mouth was finally ripped to pieces, if blood would quench his unbearable thirst. But not _his _blood. No, his blood would only worsen the craving. But _Fusco's _blood would satisfy it.

"I'd hate to have to repeat myself, Fusco," he warned.

The Liam he was familiar with would have released Lynné the moment Sands had burst into the room. The nervous agent (with his constant fear of performing the wrong act) would have skittered away from Lynné, spouting half-formed explanations and apologies all the while.

But, miraculously, Liam maintained his hold on Lynné, even going as far as tightening his grip on her shoulders. Confusion broke through the thick fog of fiery scorn that filled Sands' mind, momentarily throwing off his senses. But Sands, aided by the familiar feeling of a gun in his hand, quickly regained his balance.

"I think he knows," he heard Lynné mutter into Liam's ear, not bothering to be conspicuous. She looked over her partner's shoulder, her dark eyes shining with relief, exhaustion, and another unknown emotion. But Sands' attention was drawn to the shallow gash that ran just above his sister's left eyebrow. Instantly, he felt his anger returning.

"That your _partner_ – " Sands spat the word out like sour milk "— is a flunky for the Poisson Mafia? Seems likely."

"Do you know who else is working for him?"

"Cat?" Zebbidy suddenly guessed, nodding to the unconscious woman in the corner.

"And?" Lynné quizzed, still gazing at her brother as she looped her arms casually around Liam's neck.

"Un Agent Harrington," Joséphine spoke up, her voice sounding small and frightened as it echoed throughout the room.

"Hi, Josey," Lynné acknowledged lightly. "That's a good answer, sweetie, but it's not the one I'm looking for." Her eyes went to Sands again and her brows arched. "Still don't know?"

"Haven't got a clue, Lynnie. And I suggest you stop with the horse shit because, in case you haven't noticed, we're kinda running on a tight schedule, here."

Normally, she would have agreed with her brother. In fact, Lynné was certain that, in any other time or place, she would have spilled her guts the moment had Sands entered the room. Of course, the drugs that were flowing through her veins at the moment could have had a lot to do with her uncharacteristic carelessness. Snickering softly, she buried her face in the crook of Liam's shoulder, quite unashamed that she was resting her entire body against him, literally placing herself in his hands.

_Damn drugs_…she sighed, unable to even will herself to hate how weak she had become.

"So," she stated, once again turning her sights to Sands, "you didn't figure it out?"

When his only answer was to narrow his eyes in impatience, Lynné smiled slightly and shook her head. Lifting her eyes to meet her brother's, she murmured tiredly, "Promise me you won't freak out, okay?" She didn't wait for a response. "You remember Ajedrez, right?" She laughed humorlessly. "Guess what? She's alive and kicking. Well," Lynné added as an afterthought, remembering the cartel heiress's prosthetic appendages. "She's alive, anyway."

* * *

_Whee! Praise me for having this chapter up early! I'm in a good mood, not only because I actually managed to update two stories two days in a row, but also because I finally got my braces off! Y'know. Just so you guys know. u.u Also, while you all now know the reason for Liam's betrayal, you do not know the _**real** _reason. You see, waaay back in Chapter One, there was a little scene that went something like this:_

Lyn: (after giving Sands a warning about keeping his mouth shut) …unless you'd _like_ to have your ass blown off.

Sands: Nah. I'm not into that kinky sorta thing. Fusco might be, though. Ask him; see if he'd take you up on the offer.

Liam: (panicked) o.o; What?

Lyn: (thoughtfully) Somehow he doesn't seem like the type, and even if he is, _I'm_ not, so he's out of luck. Sorry, Fusco.

And anyone keeping track of Lynné's dead journal will know that, whenever she took an online quiz that had to deal with sex, the answer always had something to do with masochism or kink. And thus, I came up with the scene involving Liam and Lynné both confessing their passion for pain. Thing was, I couldn't think of anything that would lead to it. Then the betrayal idea formed and went with it, cuz, y'know, it was a neat twist to the story. So, now you can all go back to adoring Liam, cuz he loves Lynné and she…well, she wants to mercilessly bludgeon him with a mace – but in a passionate and endearing way ;D

Also, funny story involving the title of this chapter. This year, for my school's vocal concert, I get to sing the song "L-O-V-E." Y'know, it's the one that goes "L is for the way you look at me. O is for the only one I see…" and so on and so forth. Thing is, the choir director(who is deeply and devoutly religious) discovered a bit of a problem while watching TV the other night and decided to tell me about it… 

Director: I don't know if you've seen this new show – do you watch CBS?

Sidney: Not really.

Director: Well, anyway, there's this new show on. It's called _The L Word_, and it's about…well, there are these women and they're…, well, lesbians.

Sidney: (arches eyebrows) _Okaaay…why are you telling _me _this?_

Director: You see, on the commercial for the show they, well, they sing your song. You know, "L-O-V-E."

Sidney: Oh.

Director: (muttering half to himself) I just…I just think it's a terrible thing to do, ruining a perfectly good song like that. People will get the wrong _idea_ about it. Those lesbians…it's just _disgusting._

Sidney: X3 But…_I'm _a lesbian.

Director: O.O

Sidney: (confused) O.o? You mean I never told you that?

XD _I'm not a lesbian. Seriously, I'm not, though I'm not bothered by people who are. I just couldn't resist saying that to him because – homosexual or not – that was really inconsiderate of him and I wanted to put him in his place. Plus I wanted to see the look on his face. _XD! _It was great, seriously. But, in short, that's what this chapter basically revolved around. Sands dealing with his feelings for Zeb, Lyn and Liam discovering something they have in common... underneath it all, you find the L word. Not lesbian, but _**LOVE**. _Get it?_ ;D

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**zigzag: **Congrats, dear! You guessed right! It was kinda obvious that I was watching _From Hell _when the lobotomy sequence hit me, but whatever. Performing a lobotomy actually did the exact opposite of what it was supposed to do. Those who underwent the surgery usually wound up in an insane asylum after it was all over. …if they didn't die from the operation, that is. o.o;

**fanfiction fanatic: **I definitely recommend seeing PotO. u.u It's excellent. Even if you're not a fan of musicals, you should still check it out.

**Dawnie-7:** Well, the last chapter had a lot of cliffhangers to it, so maybe that's why you missed me :) Still, I'm touched either way. And it's no problem if you don't read my PotO fic; sometimes it just isn't appealing. I figured that Ajedrez might call Cat something like 'gato' simply because she knew it would get on her nerves, and it worked ;) _From Hell_, yes, definitely. :D Hmm…don't recall thinking of _Secret Window _while writing that line, but I may have just done it unconsciously ;D

**Lynx Ryder:** That big bro line cracked me up, seriously XD The 'caramel face' description is just another example of how useful a thesaurus can be. I didn't wanna use the word 'tan' so I checked out dictionary .com and it gave me caramel in return. I love it! Even though I'm certain the drill was the last thing Sands saw, I think he saw Ajedrez right before that. And even if she was the last thing he saw, I doubt he'd be very happy about that. _From Hell _is the movie, yes, and I'm with you – I couldn't stand the lobotomy scenes even when they performed it on the bad guy! XO It's just not nice… Describing the ice pick made me think of the kind of instruments dentists use (which terrify me) so I was rather uncomfortable writing that scene, if that makes you feel any better. Cat becomes a dog! 8O! Sadly, that didn't even occur to me. And I'm pleased to hear Rosa got some sympathy out of someone – that's what I was aiming for, truly. She wasn't a nice person and I never intended her to be, but she didn't have the greatest life so in a way her behavior and attitude are understandable. It's just too bad she never met a guy who would sing "Roxanne" to her, or else maybe she would've changed her mind about prostitution :(

Sands: My ego is feeling much better, by the way. ;) Not that I was all that worried to begin with, but, y'know… Fusco's another story, however.

Liam: (cowers under desk for fear of baseball bats) O.O;;;;;;

**LadySparrowJack:** I think _From Hell _is the only movie of his that involves lobotomies. Even if there _is _another one, that's the movie I was thinking of ;) All this talk about castrating Liam is kinda making me wish I _could've _written that in just so you guys could get a kick out of it :D Aww, and thank you for wanting to send me a brownie, dear; hope your migraine doesn't plague you for long!

**morph:** Nah, I'd never let anyone do that to Lyn, especially Ajedrez. Good to hear I had you on the edge of your seat, though ;D I can see where you would think OuaTiM; when I was looking up info on how to perform a lobotomy and read about inserting the pick into the eye socket, I couldn't help but be reminded of Sands' litte…incident.

Sands: … "Little incident?" No, no. When you have a one-night stand with your secretary and your wife finds out _that_ is, henceforth, referred to as an "incident." What happened in Mexico is something completely different. They gouged my fucking _eyes_ out of my goddamn _head _while I was nearly entirely _conscious_. You do..._see_...the difference, don't you?

Sidney: 9.9 Anyway… calling Sands and Company 'the good guys' cracked me up. They're anything but good, well, save for Zeb and Josey. But when you look at who they're going against, what else are ya gonna call them? ;D

o


	48. Reaching an Understanding

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Forty-Eight: **Reaching an Understanding

Last week, the day right before I posted the forty-seventh chapter of this story, it was February 22. The anniversary of Lynné Sands' first debut. Or the debut of my first _Once Upon a Time in Mexico _fic. Either way, I can't believe I overlooked that! It wasn't like I was unaware of it, either, because I had checked the publish date of _The Long Way Home _several times throughout the month of February. Hectic week, I suppose, is what made me forget. Speaking of hectic weeks, this one wasn't much better. I had speech league through February 24-26, but I had Sunday off. However, I was supposed to have a meet on Monday, but it was cancelled due to snow (yay!). But it's being made up on Wednesday, so I'll be gone then and possibly Thursday if I make it to semi-finals on Wednesday. 9.9;; But! I do _not _have a meet this Saturday, thank the gods, so I might (and this is a pretty big might) be able to have this chapter up…uhh…soon. Sometime in the near future, hopefully.

* * *

With a hand pressed to her mouth, Zebbidy stifled a gasp as Lynné announced that Ajedrez Barillo still lived. At one point in her life Zebbidy though that she could never hate anyone other than Édouard 

Poisson, but then Sands had confessed, telling her everything about his mission in Mexico. He had admitted to being naïve and how he had been deceived by a woman he had thought he could trust and possibly love. How that woman had lied to him and handed him over to her father, Armando Barillo, the very man whose operations Sands had been trying to bring to an end. How they had drugged him, restrained him by his wrists and ankles to a table, and then removed his eyes. The drill had been the last thing he saw, but Ajedrez Barillo – the way she had looked at him, so smug, so knowing, like she had just tattled to the teacher and he had gotten in trouble – and her lovely face was still prominent in his mind.

The very thought of her filled Zebbidy with loathing she had only felt towards Poisson. She recalled the same fearsome revulsion that had hit her when Sands had told her of Ajedrez's betrayal. And now that she had risen from the dead, Zebbidy's mellow yet gentle personality had vanished, only to be replaced by a searing desire that could only be hatred.

_But why do I feel this way? _she thought helplessly. She was never hateful, always forgiving. Only when she was around Poisson did she ever have the terrible urge to bring destruction to the ones who had wronged her. _But Ajedrez didn't do anything to me! _And yet she had, Zebbidy realized the moment the confused thought had flown through her head, desperate for an explanation. Ajedrez had hurt Sands with her betrayal, whether the agent was willing to admit it or not, and that infuriated Zebbidy for a reason she was all too familiar with. The very same reason she had given Sands when he had stayed awake and taken care of him instead of catching up on the sleep she was badly in need of.

'_Because I worry,_' she had told him simply, '_and I care._'

And that was it, too. She cared. She worried about everyone, but she _cared _about him, something she suspected not many people had done for Sands during his life. Perhaps Lynné did, but she wasn't open about it, and neither was her brother, yet Zebbidy had seen the way the two siblings looked at each other, and, even when they were frustrated, the concern was there. But Zebbidy herself was the only one, she imagined, who had ever openly worried about Agent Sands.

_So what does this mean?_ she wondered, feeling lost. In her lifetime, she had never tried to shut people out. That wasn't to say that she never lied, but Zebbidy had always been as truthful as she could be when a situation was dire. Or, she realized, thinking back on it, when she was dealing with someone she cared very deeply for. She had only lied to Sands once and that was about her age, and she had been dishonest then because she had wanted to throw off Poisson. Besides, despite what the CIA's profile claimed, Sands had seen right through her lie and knew she wasn't really thirty-one. She hadn't told him about her being psychic at first, but she had eventually and keeping a secret wasn't exactly a lie. And there was only one thing being kept from him, now, and he would find out about it soon enough.

"You really did a number on the bitch, you know that?" Lynné was asking Sands when at last Zebbidy turned her attention back to the others.

"Not a big enough one if she's still alive," Sands replied bitterly.

"Still," Lynné said while Liam maintained his strong hold on her, "you did some damage." With a wicked grin she continued, "She's in worse shape than I am, you know. No legs whatsoever. She can't have kids or even…dance the forbidden dance, for that matter."

"Can't sink her claws into any more unsuspecting men, then," Sands realized with dark mirth.

"I wouldn't say that," Liam warned, thinking of how Ajedrez had managed to hoodwink Adrián. Lynné considered this for a moment, then shrugged.

"Eh. True. She's got herself a lapdog, now. I think they're engaged, but the only reason he's staying with her is because of her money."

With a roll of his eyes Sands strolled over to his sister and leaned against the crude table. Its metal edge pushed into his back, stinging his flesh with its iciness, but he shoved it to the back of his mind, wanting to get Lynné's interrogation over as quickly as possible.

"Of course. If they can't hump like rabbits, then the only other thing she's got going for her is her moola."

"And she's got plenty of that now that Daddy's kicked the bucket," Lynné continued tiredly, her cheek still pressed into Liam's shoulder.

"Barillo _is _dead, then?" Zebbidy asked, sitting Joséphine upon the table while she herself took up a place next to Sands.

"Oh, yeah," Lynné confirmed. "He's _looong _gone – something Ajedrez blames me for, by the way."

"Really," Sands said dully. "And where would she get _that _idea?"

"So I put the bastard out of his misery," Lynné explained in mock-defense. "And she decides to hold a _grudge. _Was _I _the sexist pig who mistreated her all her life? No. But since said pig is _dead_ –"

"— She played the blame game and pointed her finger at you," Sands finished. He shrugged carelessly. "Hey, ya gotta vent on somebody."

"I thought that's what her 'lover' was – " Zebbidy began to mutter sarcastically when, suddenly, she stopped. Lynné had turned to better acknowledge her, allowing Zebbidy to see her fully for the first time since arriving. What she saw caused Zebbidy's breath to snag on a frail gasp.

"Lynné…" she murmured breathlessly. "What happened to your leg?"

"Oh, this?" the agent said mildly, glancing down at her missing appendage. "That happened a long time ago, Zeb."

"At the hand of the same man who did this," Sands put in with a careless gesture to his eyes.

"Although," Lynné added thoughtfully, "Cat claims removing my leg was all _her _idea. She's the one who screwed us over, by the way. She told Barillo about my operation and then, three years down the road, she stabbed you in the back, too. Remember her telling you anything about twenty million pesos?"

Sands' eyebrows rose with realization before narrowing in anger. "Conniving bi –"

"Language," Zebbidy scolded, pointing to Joséphine.

With another toss of his eyes, Sands turned his attention back to Lyn.

"Who took your leg, anyway?"

"Harrington."

"He just decided he'd have a little fun and yanked the prosthetic one off," Sands stated, letting his disbelief show.

"Pourquoi le ferait-il?" (Why would he do that?) Joséphine asked softly, looking awkward amid the team of black-clad agents in her nightgown of periwinkle blue. Her eyes were blank with frightful wonder.

"Because I insulted his darling Kitty Cat," Lynné explained simply. "He thought it would teach me a lesson."

"And your bruises?" Sands demanded with a threatening glance at Liam.

"Same purpose; different reason," Lyn said, leisurely tugging at Liam's ponytail. "Ajedrez thought I was puttin' the movies on her boyfriend, so she sent one of her big, lumbering goons down to rough me up a bit." She paused for a moment, as if remembering an important occurrence, before remarking, "And that's when I learned that I was a masochist.

"Well, not a masochist per se," she added, seeing her brother and Zebbidy's stunned faces. She grinned coyly. "I have a high tolerance in pain. Thing is, I'd much rather _inflict _it upon another rather than get the shit beaten outta me. Which is where Fusco comes in."

A slight blush tinted Liam's cheeks as he struggled with an explanation. "We, uh… we've both come to realize that…that –"

"Zeb?" Lynné interrupted. "Cover Josey's ears."

Shocked into wide-eyed silence, Zebbidy did so without hesitation. With a worried glance toward Lynné, Liam swallowed hard and attempted to regain the courage that always seemed to fail him.

"We're both…well…"

"Kinky," Lynné sighed with a disgusted look at her spineless partner. "Simple as that."

Sands and Zebbidy stared, expressionless.

"Well, it makes perfect sense," Liam said as he tried to defend his honor and make the others see the logic of the situation at the same time. "Think about it: We all know Lynné's a…a dominatrix."

"And we all know that Liam's a weak-willed mama's boy," Lynné jumped in promptly. "Without me, he's clueless."

"And without _me, _Lynné has to inflict pain upon others," Liam finished.

"I'd think she'd do that _anyway_," Sands muttered darkly.

"True," Lyn agreed, nodding.

Despite his best efforts to see another meaning to his sister's words, Sands came up empty. He refused to flat-out deny Lynné's dark pleasures; it he did, then that would make him no better than Cat, who refused to attest to her insecurities, or his father, who turned the other cheek when discussing Sands' mother.

While his resentment for Liam Fusco was still enkindled inside his body, Lynné was another matter entirely. Did she truly derive a sort of joy from pain? He supposed it was possible. And after hearing the explanation, why couldn't his sister be a masochist? There wasn't really a reason for her to concoct such a lie, at least, not one that he could fathom.

There was, of course, the possibility that she was protecting Fusco, but he doubted it. It appeared as though the pair had resolved the matter of the betrayal. And even if the panicky agent was indeed the traitor they all took him to be, then Lynné could handle herself. She had already proven that, Sands noted, when he saw the thick river of blood seeping from Liam's shoulder.

_**Wonder if that was his handiwork or her's?**_

_Hers. Fusco wouldn't think to do something like that to himself._

_**So you're admitting that you're sister's a masochist?**_

_Guess so, _he returned tonelessly. _It's not like I'll be able to stop her. If Lyn wants to partake in kinky sex-romps with her emasculate partner, then it's fine with me. _

_**You're just…going to let her do it?**_

He shrugged inwardly. _Hey, whatever makes her happy._

* * *

With her back pressed against the wall, Ajedrez listened intently as that ignorant whore of a woman – Lynné Sands – spill her guts, babbling on about everything that came to mind. Ajedrez waited, her rage mounting with every second, as the loca American spoke of missing legs (both Ajedrez's and her own) of Day of the Dead, and of murdering Ajedrez's father. Yes, she had killed her father. And she _admitted _it, the slut! And she had the nerve to ridicule _her _for being enraged… 

"…sexist pig…"

_How _dare _that hembra! _Who did she think she was, insulting her father like that? Spitting upon his name as though it were nothing? _She _was _nothing_. Meaningless. Worthless. Completely unimportant. Yet how could someone, a human being whose price was lower than _dirt_, a person so insignificant bear so much value?

Because in order to obtain Sands…she first needed Lynné. And not once had Ajedrez been denied what she wanted.

"… mistreated her all her life…" What was this? The little guarra thought she knew so much. And she did, just as she had nearly four years ago. And at the same time, exactly as before, she knew too little. Ironic and highly amusing when the time was right. But now was not the case. Now, the cocky agent had infuriated her beyond all reasoning.

Pressing the side of the gun to her chest, Ajedrez continued to listen. Her teeth were clenched together with so much force that, for a moment, she thought the team of agents would hear them gritting together. But they didn't. Too caught up in their own blind arrogance, Sands, his bitch of a sister, and the other three never even sensed Ajedrez's presence.

* * *

"I just hope you know," Lynné informed Liam bluntly, "that this doesn't mean I forgive you." 

"What?" her partner sputtered, his eyebrows knitting in confusion. "B-but we…y'know…and everything!"

Unable to believe what she heard, Lynné put her hands on her hips.

"Am I to understand," she said slowly, "that you can't tell the difference between a punishment and Make Up Sex?"

"Sex is sex, Lynnie," Sands intervened.

"To you, maybe, but Fusco –" she jerked her head sharply to the agent in question "—should know the difference."

Sands shook his head, soundlessly stalking over to his sister. "Now, that's not fair. Judging by his severe nervousness around the womenfolk, I highly doubt Fusco is all that experienced in the area of fornication."

Liam cringed at the harsh comment, color blooming on his cheeks, but Lynné's mouth tweaked into a smirk and she folded her arms over her chest. And she whispered softly, "I wouldn't say that."

* * *

Adrián Gallardo clutched at a stitch in his side as he careened down the sparse, seemingly pitch-black hallway. Yet despite the darkness that threatened to consume the passage, in the distance, Adrián could make out the faint outline of a human figure. A woman. His fiancée. It was the very woman who, in three short months, he would be spending the rest of his life with. Devoting all of his time, every single second of freedom…to her. 

Was he really going to do it?

Yes, Adrián thought with an anguished sigh, he was. He would be wed to Ajedrez Barillo in no time and he would have to sit through her constant complaints and rants. She expected pleasure around the clock, despite her physical handicap. As a result, Adrián had had to cancel all of his appointments with Rosa Hernandez. With his wife-to-be's constant need for sexual intimacy Adrián often found himself too wore out to indulge in his own guilty pleasures.

"¡Cerrado!" Ajedrez whispered fiercely, waving frantically at him as he drew closer to her. Adrián gave a nod of understanding and slid up against the wall until his shoulder was but an inch away from his fiancée's.

It wasn't that he despised Ajedrez, merely that he no longer enjoyed spending time in her company. She could be incredibly tiresome when she was in a mood, and Adrián soon found that after spending three months with her that he had to suppress a shudder of unspent annoyance whenever his fiancée was angered. There were times when he longed to simply stand up and demand her silence, but he never carried out such an act.

Ajedrez, whether she wanted to show it or not, needed him. Her life, he knew, had been a tragic and lonely one. Her father, when he wasn't making ridiculous demands, had ignored her for the most part and her mother had been fierce and wiry, much like Ajedrez herself. She had pressured her only child relentlessly, making her swear never to give herself to a man wholly, for that could result in disaster – the sort of disaster that the daughter of a powerful man like Armando Barillo could not have befall upon her.

When her mother had passed away, Ajedrez had only been thirteen – a young, confused girl about to enter the awkward stage of adolescence without her mother to guide her. Her father had not helped her in the least, Adrián knew. If anything, Barillo had made life harder for his daughter after his wife had died.

Ajedrez had tried repeatedly to earn the respect of her father, to gain his acceptance. In vain she had tried for years to prove to him that she was the only one worthy of inheriting the family business, rather than some lazy, sniveling cousin who her father was always threatening to turn over the cartel to once he passed on.

And then, finally, she was given her chance.

The CIA, apparently, thought that the drug ring was getting out of hand and they were going to shut their business down for good. Barillo, of course, could not let this happen. So he had implored the help of his daughter of twenty-eight, his only child, ordering her to seduce the cock-sure agent from America. Eager to please her father, Ajedrez had agreed.

_A decision that led to her downfall, _Adrián thought distantly.

His fiancée had tricked the agent easily enough. Frankly, Ajedrez had later confided to Adrián, she suspected that Sands had been secretly longing for someone other than his insane sister to be there for him. To _love _him, Ajedrez had said snidely. The pathetic, scrawny, little rat… at least he had been an eye-candy. She had always said that she would have never gone through with it had he been ugly, although Adrián knew better. Ugly or not, if it mean approval from her father, she would have done it without hesitation.

"Are they in there?" he breathed, barely making a sound.

Ajedrez's only response was a single nod.

"Sex is sex, Lynnie," Adrián heard the American reply. He fought the urge to burst into the room and shoot the bastard right then and there. He doubted the agent would be saying such things if he'd ever made love to a legless woman before.

"Did you send for backup?" Ajedrez whispered suddenly. Her voice was so low Adrián scarcely heard it. Wordlessly, he bobbed his head once.

"How soon with they be here?" she pressed further, her voice betraying her and letting her impatience and eagerness to spring into action give way.

"Shortly," Adrián replied. "Very shortly."

Her face set with determination, Ajedrez gave a final nod and turned into the room.

* * *

_Cliffhanger! Sorry, couldn't resist. But how'd everyone like that little glimpse into Ajedrez's head? She's an interesting character to write, Ajedrez. Although she does get annoying from time to time, what with her constant Sands-bashing and all. _XO _Also, am I the only one who noticed that I never mentioned Adrián's last name until now? _X3 _Sorry about that. I thought for certain that I had, but apparently not. _:P 

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**vanillafluffy:** The kinky scene has been dying to be written for ages now. So glad you liked it :D! Sands just won't admit, not even to himself, that he has feelings for Zeb. I'm uncertain if he ever will, in this story anyway. However, if I _do _write a follow-up to this, he'll most definitely be moderately open with his feelings for her. I'm planning on having it take place five years after the events in Paris, so things will have definitely changed a bit. Not much, mind you. ;) Ah…Lyn and Liam…two very twisted kids. But they love each other in one way or another, and, in the end, that's what really matters, right? And I am working on something lustful for the following chapter, though I'm not entirely certain who it's going to be between. Still debating, you see. Definitely going to be something, though. u.u

**Dawnie-7: **Like I said, I'm straight but I can't see the problem with being gay. I really can't. Some of the most talented, intelligent, and creative people I know are homosexuals and they're perfectly nice. And thanks for the compliment, by the way. :) I have been wanting to hit Cat for so long now. Probably longer than you guys since I knew she had betrayed everyone months ago. 9.6;

**morph:** Somebody's warming up to Liam! At last! See, he didn't want to turn against Lyn but he did it anyway because he knew it was the only way he or Lynné could ever succeed in taking down the Mafia. So, really, he did it _for _her. Hmm…hinting…possibly. The only hinting as far as the first chapter is concerned is the fact that Lyn and Liam are both into kink. Of course, all the way back in Chapter One, you wouldn't know that and probably wouldn't remember that line either. :) Sands is definitely not going to react well to Lyn's lack of a leg. At the moment, he's got so much on his mind that he hasn't really taken it into consideration, but when he does, his mind is not going to be a nice place to be. Not at all. And, no, Josey isn't aware of Lyn's current…state. I've got a bit worked out where she'll figure it all out, though. And I agree; good guys going bad is one of the most aggravating things in my book. ;.; But Liam's back with the good guys, now, and there he'll stay. u.u

**zigzag:** Aww…glad to know you're on Liam's side. :) Mostly everyone else is against him – not that I can really blame them. Thank you for the compliment towards Autobio, too! I remember you taking an interest in the idea of a student-teacher affair between Sands and his principal. Not sure if I'll be able to write one, but I'll definitely take it into consideration!

**fanfiction fanatic:** His face was to die for, seriously X3 It was totally worth whatever consequences may lie in store for me, too. u.u Braces, geh… Never want to go through that again. Evil, evil things. The fact that I don't like the dentist doesn't help matters, but anyway… Hope you get to see PotO soon! And I _did_ notice that this review was longer than normal ;D

**Lynx Ryder:** My gods, you're hostile toward Liam! Not that I blame you, after what he's done. u.u As much as they don't like to admit it, Lyn and Sands both get their controlling ways from their father. Loud, demanding tyrants usually tend to command everything in a room, don't they? Even though Lyn and Sands _aren't _really tyrants, thankfully. :) Oh yes. Guevera may have sawed the leg off, but Cat was the one who gave him the idea. She definitely crossed the line in my books and will undoubtedly get what's coming to her in the end. Wresting history? XD!

Lyn: I now have this…rather…intriguing image of him in spandex. Hmm…

Liam: o.o;;; You're _not _thinking of –

Lyn: -.9 It's better than my original plan. I _was _gonna make you wear a lederhosen when we did the nasty.

Liam: O.O

Sidney: I'm beginning to wonder if I should disown that girl… anyway, Sands is a total liar because he cares about Zeb; he just won't admit it. u.u I've been wanting to get the killer inside of Sands out in the open for a while. Sorry it took so long but there was never really an opportune moment 'til now. Lyn's not about to forgive Liam; not for a good while. She may put up with him and show him small bits of affection here and there, but it's gonna be a while until he earns her trust again.

Liam: How am I supposed to do that:(

Lyn: By letting me call you 'Booboo Kitty.'

Liam: O.O?

Lyn: In _public_. u.u

Liam: o.o ………… e.e;; x.X

Sidney: (shrugs) Meh. He'll live. Not sure my director will, though ,after my remark. He's been getting on my nerves as of late, anyway, and then he had to go and bash homosexuals. The way I see it, he had it coming.

Zebbidy: (singing) _He only had himself to blame… _:D

Sands: Dear _God, _not _Chicago_… 9.9;

Sidney: Don't be so melodramatic, sweetie. Not when you're surrounded by _Chicago_ fans! But back to the topic at hand… thank you for the compliments! You know how much I appreciate every one of them:D

_Coming down to the end, kids! I'm guessing about… three chapters left if you count an epilogue. And after that, well…who knows. There may be a third story, there may not be. I'm leaning towards yes, though. _:)

o


	49. Beyond Enemy Lines

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Forty-Nine: **Beyond Enemy Lines

Oy vey… so, so late with this chapter… -.-; I really thought I would have posted sooner than this because I didn't have that much farther to go with _Impromptu_. I had planned on finishing up Chapter II, posting it, and then getting right back to work on this. However, speech league decided to interfere once again as did unexpected rehearsals for the musical I'm currently in. 9.9;; Speech league, at long last, is over but now I have musical practice to deal with. -.e And the damn director can't seem to get a schedule written up…so I never know when I'm having practice until the last minute. The good thing is, rehearsals are only a little over an hour long (albeit, come May, they'll probably stretch on into four hours 9.9;;). It's just aggravating when I don't know whether or not I've got anything going on in the evenings. I like being organized and having a schedule, as you may have already deduced. Apparently, to my director, this matter is an insignificant one. -.e;;;

* * *

With two beautiful women flanking each side, one would have thought Sands' luck had finally picked up. Unfortunately, the woman on his right was in no mood to 'get down and funky' and the one to his left happened to be his sister, whose partner in kinky indulgence, as Sands now called him, was standing right behind her. Joséphine had not been seen since Ajedrez's ambush, though Sands suspected the child had been hauled off to her bedroom to await her punishment. And, in a way, he felt as though he was doing the exact same thing by sitting in front of a large, mahogany desk while a Mafia leader stared him down.

Édouard Poisson wasn't all he was cracked up to be. True, his well nourished muscles were visible beneath his layers of clothing, but the white dress shirt and black dinner jacket, though an elegant combination together, seemed casual when they were thrown together with a pair of khaki pants. But the insouciant façade he was trying to achieve shattered the moment Sands locked eyes with the aging Mafia don. At once any traces of an easy-going man were fiercely chiseled away by the heartless, constricted face that swam in front of him.

Though spare, the lines that branched off of each corner of Poisson's eyes were deep, as were the ones that flanked his tightly clenched jaw. Unlike the lines that many parade when they age, the crevasses that ran along Édouard Poisson's features were not caused by laughter, but by grueling bitterness and acrimony that extended far beyond the man's years. A pit of manic cruelty had been ignited within the man, and now it burned brightly in his eyes, simmering with barbarity.

Barbarity that was being directed at Zebbidy, Sands noted, intrigued.

_Wonder what that's about…?_

_**He's probably still brooding over her running away at the party.**_

_True. He seems like the type who'd hold a grudge._

_**And you aren't?**_

_I meant over something pointless, _Sands shot tonelessly, tired, aggravated, and not in the mood for the voice's bantering. He cast a sidelong glance to his right, glimpsing Zebbidy and noting the stark contrast of her creamy complexion and how her auburn tresses shown red the dim light of the room. Her small hands were folded quietly on her lap and Sands noticed that she had chosen to stare at them rather than meet the eyes of Édouard Poisson. Zebbidy bit her lip, flexing her fingers in an attempt to distract herself from looking at anyone.

Shaking the sense back into his head, Sands switched his gaze to Zebbidy's counterpoint. Compared to the redhead's soft curves, Ajedrez appeared almost overly voluptuous – not that Sands would have minded had the irresistible urge to decapitate seized him the moment he laid his eyes on her.

Settled comfortably in the lap of her fiancé, (who was in turn seated leisurely on one of the couches that flanked each wall of the office) Ajedrez appeared to be rather disinterested with the whole scene. But when she caught Sands looking at her all of her boredom evaporated as a knowing smirk stretched across her alluring face. Her smile was cool, smug…so haughty. Undoubtedly she was feeling high and mighty now that she had sunk her claws into him again… Set up an ambush and brought him, Lynné, Zebbidy, and Liam to Edouard Poisson (her 'partner in crime')… Thrown them at his feet… Successfully played and screwed him over.

Or so she thought.

As well crafted as her plan seemed it was really rather redundant. Instead of finding a new way to torment him, Ajedrez was merely recreating a past event.

**_'Event.' Yeah. Be great to relive _that _one again._**

_Really, I thought she had more taste than that._

_**You give the bitch more credit than she's worth, **_the voice sniffed disdainfully.

_What pisses me off is that _she _thinks she's got me. She's so damn…overly confident…and _that's _her major flaw._

_**So you're going to escape. **_It was a statement, not a question.

_I plan on it, yeah._

_**Good boy, **_the voice praised dryly. **_Just one thing: How, exactly, do you plan on leaving when you've got the bitch, her lapdog – _**Sands cast a glance at Adrián and barely restrained his mouth from twisting into a wry smirk; his replacement couldn't even hope to compare to _him_. **_Dumb and Dumber, _**the voice remarked of Édouard and Alphonse, eyeing each Poisson in turn. **_As well as the pair of henchmen that are undoubtedly positioned outside the door._**

**_Not that I don't have the utmost confidence in you, _**it amended, though its tone would suggest otherwise. **_I'm just curious to know how you plan on making your get-away after considering the problems at hand._**

_First, _Sands drawled lazily, _we're gonna need some noise._

* * *

"Oh, God…"

"Kitty? You all right?"

"A chair just made contact with my skull – do you _think _I'm all right?" Catherine snapped. She winced, immediately regretting the intensity of her volume. Her head throbbed with a sickening rhythm, sending her insides reeling on an endless wave of nausea. There were no doubts in Cat's whirling mind that, had she a mirror, she would have been able to see the growing welt on her head, and watch as it pulsated with every aching second. With her eyes cinched shut in pain Cat tilted her head back and let it sink into the soft, luxurious cushions behind her, all the while ignoring her future husband as he prowled Édouard Poisson's living room, preparing to thrust another tirade upon her narrow shoulders.

"How the _hell_ could you have let your guard _down _like that?" Richard Harrington demanded, a vein vibrating furiously in his temple. "The bitch was strapped to a _table! _For Christ's sake, Kitty, how hard is it to keep a bound woman from escaping?"

"You're not experienced with Lynné," Cat shot, careful to keep her voice at a low. "She'll deceive you when you. You'll think you have her, but then, when you least expect it, she'll turn everything around on you."

"She was _drugged!_" Harrington bellowed, outraged.

"_It doesn't matter!_" Catherine yelled back, springing to her feet. At once she was back on the couch, wincing at thousands of red-hot needles were stabbed into the crown of her skull. Between the exhausting qualms and through the gossamer haze of pain, she could make out Richard, her partner…her _fiancé_…glaring down at her in tacit disdain.

Had she really been foolish enough to expect _sympathy _from Richard? Of course not. Even if she had let her whore of a stepsister get away – which she hadn't; Fusco's sudden change of heart hadn't been expected – Cat was no fool. Yet Richard treated her as though she were one. And now that Lynné had slipped away, whether she was aware of it or not, she had once again cast the light of idiocy upon Catherine.

"You should get some ice for that," her fiancé commented insouciantly with a glance to Cat's bloodied abscess.

The merciless lump on her head continued to resonate with every second, blinding her with its unyielding plague of agony and sickening malaise. Yet through her increasing, unbearable torture, Catherine saw Richard Harrington standing in front of her, his arms crossed and his heart awash with contempt. A feral growl reverberating in her throat, its low, guttural tone echoing throughout the room, Catherine bared her teeth, digging her nails into her scalp, and issued a chilling, venomous hiss.

"Bite me."

* * *

Lynné wasn't sure what to wear: the mask of vengeance and uncontrollable scorn or the one of wide-eyed fright that gave her a pitifully meek appearance. The former ventured much closer to her true feelings, but the latter was wonderfully deceptive…

_**Ho hum, what's a girl to do?**_

In the end, she settled on a cool façade of indifference. This way, she figured, everyone would ponder over her vacuous face, wondering what she was really thinking and how to pry away the mask that hid those thoughts.

Poisson, it seemed, had adopted a similar expression. Although, while blank and unrevealing as it was, his mask harbored a harsh brutality that, though subtle, could still be seen lurking within the steely gray depths of his eyes.

Lynné, however, merely appeared to be bored with the whole situation, as if she had had to endure the same scenario tine and again, which (to an extent) she had. This was all part of the job, she told herself. Yes, being hauled in before an over-bearing, power-hungry potential dictator was all part of the job.

_And don't make this out like it's _my _fault._

_**Who the hell else am I gonna blame? Fusco?**_

_Knock yourself out. Serves the little prick right for not letting me in on his plan._

_**I though you forgave him.**_

_Fuck no. You mean to tell me that for once you _weren't_ listening?_

**You _weren't either. Had you been paying attention, however, I'm sure you would have heard the bitch and put a bullet in her oversized ass._**

_I've been injected with Christ only knows _how _many drugs, so you'll forgive me if I have trouble staying lucid enough to hear Ajedrez when she chews her nails._

_**True, **_the voice allowed. **_After all, you've yet to pick up on that tapping sound, so I suppose I can –_**

_Wait – tapping?_

**Yes, **the voice seethed, thoroughly disgusted with Lynné's ignorance. **_God, what did they give you, anyway?_**

But Lynné wasn't listening. With as much strength as her weary body would allow, she forced each and every one of her wandering thoughts to focus on the noise and seek out its source. It didn't take her very long to discover that the answer was right beside her.

* * *

_Come on, Lyn. Now is not the time to piss around…_

_**She's probably too doped up to notice you.**_

_No. If there's one thing that annoys Lyn, it's a repetitive tattoo._

_**So you plan on pissing her off so she'll whip out a gun and blow Poisson's ass away?**_

_Now, what would be the point of that, especially if she doesn't have a gun?_

Slowly, carefully Sands raised his index finger and continued to send out a message in a light, abrupt series of taps. Morse code. It hadn't been part of his CIA training, but he'd be damned if he hadn't added it to his list of capabilities. Along, Sands added, the corners of his mouth pulling into an insolent grin, with Lynné. It had been her idea, actually, to learn Morse code. Sands had been skeptical, but only at first. Information, tricks, or skills were rarely passed down, especially if they bore the markings of a potential use.

Now, with the nail of his finger making sharp contact with the wooden edge of his seat, he drummed out a crisp note – nothing too fancy lest Lynné's mind was dwindling – and sent it to his sister.

For a moment, he thought that the susurration of the tapping – a mere splinter, hardly enough to puncture the tension in the atmosphere – had bypassed Lynné, for his sister's line of view remained fixated straight ahead, focused on the brooding Edouard Poisson. But then, with only the slightest, most miniscule hint of movement, Lynné tilted her head to the right.

**_Isn't it strange, _**the voice mused thoughtfully. **_She's been in your presence for a good half hour, now…and she only has one leg._**

_Point being?_

_**Well… if I recall correctly…you've only ever seen her with two.**_

So he had. The voice was right. Strange how it had never occurred to him before. There hadn't been a time when he had seen Lynné with only one leg. She always wore the prosthetic one, even while she slept. Yet…she had taken it off. Once. Months ago – hell, nearly a year ago, now. But he had been unable to see her without it, because, as it turned out, the very same man who had been responsible for the butchering of Lynné's leg…had also taken the liberty of removing _his_ eyes.

Behind Lynné stood Liam Fusco, gripping the back of his partner's chair so tightly it threatened to splinter. Picturing this, Sands felt certain that he would have found the scenario comical had the setting been less threatening and more easy-going. Still, he couldn't help but admit that it was rather ballsy of the agent to stand so protectively over Lynné – to stand near her at all.

"Monsieur Poisson," Liam stumbled, his speech broken under the choleric mobster's gaze. "I… I a-assure you, I ne-never –"

"Never what?" Ajedrez's sultry, honey-coated voice floated from the couch, an indolent sound that somehow pierced the uneasy ambience of the room. "Betrayed us?" she queried. "Mislead us? _Lied?_" One by one, she filched possibilities from Liam's gaping mouth, wicked elation shining brightly in her eyes.

With Ajedrez's peruse ebbing away at his decorum, Liam's anxiety was obvious. He wanted so badly to look into Lynné's eyes and find… not an answer or reassurance, but a faint glimmer of brazen boldness – a mellow self-confidence that inspired him to believe that there _was _a possibility of a getaway. But his partner's back was to him, her dark eyes analyzing Édouard Poisson, and Liam knew he would have to settle for Lynné's long, glossy brown tresses. They weren't as allaying (or as pretty) as Lynné's eyes, but they would have to do.

He cleared his throat. Beside him, Sands idly tapped the arm of his chair.

"I didn't betray you," Liam explained to Poisson, refusing to let his voice cede to his panicked emotions.

"You bludgeoned Mademoiselle Johnson," Poisson began slowly, "over the head…with a _chair._"

"She was…about to perform a lobotomy on Lynné," Liam blurted before he could stop himself. "And… Señorita Barillo –" he gave a nod to Ajedrez, who scowled deeply " – had strictly forbidden her to do so, uh, _so _…I was…merely…respecting her wishes," he finished with flourish. He beamed, almost ready to dare Poisson to challenge him.

A sudden hush befell the room, bathing its occupants in a veil of breathless apprehension that clung to their skin as their pores soaked it in like a massive, invisible sponge. As if fully submerged in the heavy mood, everyone held their breath, feeling their chests begin to constrict and twinge sharply. And just when lungs seemed ready to burst from lack of oxygen, Édouard Poisson spoke, his voice acting as a hand that pulled them from their abashed suffocation.

"It seems to me, Agent Fusco…" His tone was cool, calculating, and made a clean cut through the air. "…that you were _protecting _this woman, rather than ensuring that Señorita Barillo's wishes be fulfilled."

Liam blanched, opening his mouth wide but making no sound.

"If I may intervene? Thanks," Lynné suddenly proposed without awaiting a response and raising her hand like a child in school. Poisson snapped to attention, fixing his steely eyes on the slender brunette across from him. Lynné met his gaze easily. "This is just speaking from experience, but in all the years I've known Fusco – " Liam cringed inwardly; she was still using his last name " – he has proved himself to be the most nervous, cowardly, hopelessly _dim _human being I have ever encountered."

Again, Liam winced, and this time everyone saw.

"However," Lynné went on smoothly, "he has also always been a gentleman, showing a great deal of respect to the –" she gave a light cough that could have been a laugh " – fairer sex. And so, it is possible that he wanted to spare _Señorita Barillo _from anger and also keep me from harm." She gave a faux-naïf shrug. "It's the gentlemanly thing to do."

"If he is such a gentleman," Poisson seethed, "then _why _did he feel the need to bash Agent Johnson over the head with a_ metal folding chair?_"

"Father! Calm dow –"

"Not _now_, Alphonse!" Poisson railed, throwing off his son's arm, his gray eyes flashing in anger. "Agent Fusco," he seethed, rounding on Liam. "She is a lady, is she not? _Why_, then, would he strike her unless he had an ulterior motive?"

"Sir, I am confident that there was no other motive involved," Sands put in dryly, "cuz as I've said before, Cat's no lady." He glanced at Liam. "Even Fusco would know that."

* * *

"Monsieur?"

"Shh… silencieux, ma petite," a man said gently. There was a fleeting image of someone pressing their index finger to their lips in a gesture of silence, but forceful questions shoved the mental picture away.

"Qui sont vous – "

"_Joséphine_," another man ordered. His tone was soft, yet there was a commanding air to the voice that made the little girl obey. There was also the familiarity to consider. A deep tenor with rounded syllables made crisp with exposure to upscale parties and cultured affiliates. She recognized the man instantly.

Tentatively, she dared to venture, "Oncle Vincent?"

The response was gruff. "Oui." She pictured a nod of confirmation.

"Vous devez vous taire, Joséphine," warned Vincent.

Rather than heed her uncle's words, Joséphine pressed him further, albeit, she did lower her voice slightly. "Qui est avec vous?"

With a resigned sigh, Vincent gave her a grave reply.

"Un ami de la famille."

* * *

"I will ask you once, Agent Sands," Édouard Poisson explained. His tone was soft, but the danger still lurked within every word. "And I warn you, I do not care to repeat myself."

Sands merely shrugged, his guise languid, while inside his agitation was beginning to grow. _This prick obviously has a flare for dramatics…_

Against his chair, he tapped out: '_S-T-A-B…F-I-S-H…W-I-T-H…P-E-N…_'

And, amazingly, he received a response, albeit, a brief one.

'_C-O-O-L…I-T…_'

"Why are you involved with my granddaughter?" Poisson suddenly demanded of Sands. The agent gave the smallest of jumps as the order hit him full-force, but he recovered so quickly the blunder was next to invisible. To his left, Lynné and Liam's eyebrows arched considerably at the peculiarity of Poisson's question. But it was the woman on the right that snagged Sands' attention. At the word 'granddaughter' Zebbidy's head had shot up, her auburn tresses tumbling down from their negligent ponytail as her eyes widened with nervous apprehension, and for the first time that night she looked up at Édouard Poisson.

Pushing his bemusement aside, Sands turned back to the Mafia leader and gave him a winning response.

"Excuse me?"

He ignored Lynné as she rolled her eyes and an indignant (if unladylike) snort from behind that undoubtedly belonged to Ajedrez.

"I merely meant that as an expression of my misunderstanding," Sands began with snide defense.

"Forgive me," Poisson apologized with equal sarcasm. "I didn't realize you were easily confused."

_Not confused, just easily distracted, _Zebbidy thought with a glance at Sands. The agent may not have noticed, but she had caught him in his earlier examination of her person. Now she watched as he gave Poisson a tight-lipped smile, apparently unmoved by the mobster's callow remark.

"It's not that I was confused," Sands countered smoothly. "I just thought your question was rather…off-topic. Besides, my involvement is obvious, and it's not as though I really had a choice in that matter. She followed Lyn – " he jerked a thumb at his sister " – home one day, and she's hung around ever since. Can't get rid of the brat."

"Strange," Poisson remarked. "I was under the impression she had been under the protection of _your _agency."

Sands waved a dismissive hand. "Please. The CIA doesn't know jack – they only _think _they do, overly confident bastards that they are. Which isn't a good quality to have, considering the line of work… Delusion and spy don't mesh well."

"You would know, being so experienced in both areas," came Ajedrez's snippy comment. Beside her, Adrián let out a short, forced laugh. If Sands felt anything towards either of them, he hid it behind a cool smirk.

"So the CIA knows nothing of her?" Poisson continued to press. "She is not under their protection, she was not feeding them information –"

"None that I'm aware of, no."

"Then why, I wonder, did you allow her to stay with you? What purpose could she have possibly held? Unless," he continued slowly, "you did have a use for her."

Sands raised a quizzical brow.

"Care to tell me what you're implying?"

"Monsieur Poisson, calm yourself," Ajedrez cut in, sliding gracefully off of the velvet upholstered couch and gliding soundlessly across the room. She leaned over next to Sands, her position giving the agent a _very _pleasing view, one that he refused to appreciate or even acknowledge. "I think what Édouard means to imply," she whispered silkily, her rounded syllables purring softly in Sands' ear, "is that you were _sleeping_…" Closer still, as if to kiss him. "…with the _enemy._"

Zebbidy's almond-shaped eyes became circular at this. She regarded Ajedrez with disgusted outrage, but before she could speak a word, Sands intervened.

"You think I'm screwing the _kid?_"

At this, a fountain of laughter streamed from Lynné's mouth. Behind her, Liam appeared to be torn between alarm and concern. His dark eyes never leaving Ajedrez's honey-brown ones, Sands pursed his sulky lips in amusement.

"I know I'm a swinger, baby, but even I have limits. Pedophilia is outta the question." _Unless we're talking about the Olsen twins, but they're legal now, aren't they?_ "In short, sugarbuns," he said aloud, "no, I am not, nor have not had sexual relations with Joséphine."

"_Joséphine?_" Alphonse Poisson gasped, dumbfounded. Uncertain, he looked to Édouard for an answer. "Father…" His voice failed him and he was left to stand in bewilderment.

Poisson shook his head, squinting his eyes in crazed mirth. "Joséphine…" he murmured. "My…_seven-year-old _granddaughter… Je ne le crois pas… I was told you were an _intelligence _agency…"

"Common misconception," Lynné muttered dryly.

"Your agency never informed you?" Poisson asked, his tone disbelieving yet laced with twisted amusement all the same.

"Obviously not," Sands replied brusquely. "They have a habit of keeping important details from me."

Folding his ring encrusted, vein-gilded hands atop his polished mahogany desk, Édouard Poisson gave another light peal of deranged laughter. "Agent Sands, it appears that you have been kept in the dark for some time…"

Bitter, coppery fluid filled Zebbidy's mouth, and it was then that she realized that for the past five minutes she had been unconsciously consuming her own tongue. Beside her, Ajedrez Barillo's face was aglow with an imprudent smile that had been engaged by Poisson's jab towards Sands' short-lived handicap.

"You see, Agent Sands, I fear someone forgot to mention to you," Poisson began regally, "that Joséphine is not my only granddaughter."

Behind him, Alphonse's eyes glittered evilly. Ajedrez's face was so alight with sadistic mirth that Sands would not have been surprised if her entire head was suddenly engulfed in flames.

"So who's the other kid?"

"You know her," Ajedrez informed him. "You may have even slept with her."

"She is so very pretty, after all," Alphonse added with a foul sneer.

The maze of lines that had been carved into his semblance contorted upward into an insufferably sinister grin that made them feel as though they had descended into the very heart of Dante's inferno. Édouard Poisson shifted his devilish gaze just a fraction of an inch to his left, resting his steely gray eyes on the waifish, intelligent beauty of a redhead that sat but a mere foot away from him.

"Zebbidy. Would you care to explain?"

* * *

_It's over! Finally! Dear gods, I am so terribly sorry for the wait, and with a cliffhanger chapter, too… you guys deserve so much credit for your patience. You really do. The next one should be up much sooner, although it really all depends on my schedule, damn insufferable choir directors… But until then, I suggest you guys go over the dreams Zebbidy has had about her past, mmkay? The next chapter is where they all come into play. Honestly, I'm surprised no one has picked up on anyone of this sooner or at least mentioned it in an earlier review, but…meh. Quick translation of the second-to-last scene before we move on to the Author's Thanks, since I know notall of you speak French _:D _I just felt that after doing an entire scene in French, it would be tacky to throw in those damned parenthesies._

"Monsieur?"

"Shh… quiet, little one," a man said gently. There was a fleeting image of someone pressing their index finger to their lips in a gesture of silence, but forceful questions shoved the mental picture away.

"Who are you– "

"_Joséphine_," another man ordered. His tone was soft, yet there was a commanding air to the voice that made the little girl obey. There was also the familiarity to consider. A deep tenor with rounded syllables made crisp with exposure to upscale parties and cultured affiliates. She recognized the man instantly.

Tentatively, she dared to venture, "Uncle Vincent?"

The response was gruff. "Oui." She pictured a nod of confirmation.

"You need to keep quiet, Joséphine," warned Vincent.

Rather than heed her uncle's words, Joséphine pressed him further, albeit, she did lower her voice slightly. "Who is with you?"

With a resigned sigh, Vincent gave her a grave reply.

"A friend of the family."

_And now that you have all been spared from confusion...author's thanks!_

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**morph: **Glad you liked Ajedrez's past. I've actually tossed around the idea of basing a short fic on her scenes in OUaTiM, taking them from her POV. Not sure if I'll do it since I'm still tackling this monster and possibly a sequel as well as _Impromptu_…but, maybe. 9.6; And, yes, poor Adrián. Even though I don't care for him all that much, I still can't help but feel a little sorry for him because he really has no idea just how strong his fiancée's thirst for vengeance is. If I do write a third story, El will most definitely be in it, rest assured ;D Wasn't really going anywhere with the PotC refs; they were meant for fun and fun alone. I was talking about Lyn and Liam's insistence that neither of them were kinky, when in actuality, they both are, but, like I said, it was impossible to identify that in the first chapter, so don't worry :)

**Lynx Ryder:** Zeb's not normally a hateful girl, but at the moment she wouldn't mind ripping Ajedrez's face off ;D That's true; aside from Zeb and, on extremely rare occasions, Lyn, Sands' mom is the only person who's ever truly cared about him. Poor boy…good thing I hooked him up with a caring individual, huh? And I'm glad you're willing to tolerate Liam now. He is on the side of the good…or…as good as Sands and Lyn can get, anyway ;D

**Dawnie-7:** Yes, when confusion ensues, honesty is always the best way to go especially if your trust is limited. 9.9 Nice to hear someone's finally visiting Lyn's DJ as well :)

**fanfiction fanatic:** lol, my review (assuming I ever get the chance to review, damn FFn -.e) are either short and to the point or long and drawn out, complete with details on what particular lines I liked the most. :D;; It all really depends on the story, really. But anyway… 'brilliant and annoying…' hmm….yes. I think I like the sound of that. It's usually how I feel when I'm reading a story and come to a cliffhanger. :) But I'll try not to keep you in suspence for too terribly long with this one. The last wait was just…redicuously long. 9.6;;

_Only two chapters left, guys!_

o


	50. The Death of the King

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Fifty:** The Death of the King

Fifty chapters… o.o; Oy vey…um… Wow. I never really expected it to get this out of hand. Geeze… Well, I'm certainly going to go back and edit this when all is said and done. God knows it probably needs it. 9.9;; But, on another note, I was stunned to see how many were taken off guard by Zeb's last relegation. I sincerely thought it was obvious. Actually, though, taking this all from a reader's POV and knowing how I am…it would've gone over my head. I'm sure of it. In a way I'm like Sands, I suppose. I hone in on all the little details but sometimes skip right over the larger picture :D;;; Revenge, gun violence, and bloodshed ahoy!

* * *

Hanging by a single, barren thread, one whose fraying self threatened to snap at any moment, were the last of her sense, and yet Zebbidy found herself surrounded by thick, sturdy ropes. Lifelines that called out to her, their painfully shrill, silvery voices goading "_Grab me! Grab me!_" Each one implored her to do the same: take a hold and swing to safety. But she didn't dare move, for whatever line she chose, each outcome held the same chaos that had been brought on by her treacherous decision. While she could slip away unscathed – the possibility was great – but those around her, however, would be forced to endure the repercussions. Her only duty was to sit and watch as the turmoil began to unfold. 

The lifelines, she realized, were a web. A mass of gossamer threads coalesced to form a trap that was set to ensnare hapless insects such as herself. At the heart of the adhesive labyrinth lurked fate in the form of an awesome arachnid, poised carefully, awaiting those foolish enough to enter its domain.

Sands and his team, though their genius was certain and their skills were staunch, though they were all well aware of the consequences of trespassing, had wandered amiably into the lair of Édouard Poisson, the monster. And she, Zebbidy, had played the part of the bait. Unknowingly she had lured the agents into danger, all but hand fed them to the gruesome spider. Now, they too were trapped. Their limbs, along with her own, entwined with the viscid, wispy threads of the beast's net. And while she could inevitably get away with only guilt as a burden, the chance of the agents escaping was slim.

Consumed by the sticky myriad of tangles that was the web, Zebbidy felt her muscles scream as her arms were pulled taunt, suspending her between two equally empowering beings. Sands tugged naggingly from the left, while Édouard Poisson gave his end one brutal, arduous jerk, inflicting pain upon her already throbbing limbs. Both men threw her a vitriolic glare, but, juxtaposed next to one another, the difference between the two men was clear. Though undoubtedly inundated with rage, the agent was asking her for an explanation, but the Mafia leader – her _grandfather _– was demanding one.

"Zebbidy," Poisson commanded sharply, his voice scything through her rumination with cold precision. "I suggest you pay attention; you know that my tolerance for disrespect is limited."

"How _does_ she know that, exactly?" Sands intervened, his tone mordant.

"He's my grandfather," Zebbidy murmured numbly. "I should _think _that that would be obvious by now."

"And explain why you didn't tell him earlier," Poisson prompted drollingly. For the first time in years there was life inside the aging mobster's eyes. The ice that had once frozen his irises had vanished, melted by the fires of mirth.

Zebbidy gave an indifferent shrug.

"To be honest, I never thought that you were much of a grandfather. The bond between us never _was_ very strong. Therefore, the telling the CIA that we were related seemed pointless, wouldn't you agree? After all, in all the years we've known one another, you never once called me your granddaughter."

"You never conquered a feat worthy enough to merit the title," Poisson returned coolly.

Zebbidy's green eyes sparked, narrowing sharply beneath a fringe of long lashes. Beside her, Ajedrez flaunted her newfound triumph by smirking broadly. Sands and Lynné wore matching scowls, looking so bitter that their anger and revulsion seemed to seep form their very pores. Switching her gaze, Zebbidy regarded Liam who appeared to be puzzled with the whole situation, but also anxious. It was as if he was anticipating an event that should have already occurred but had unfortunately been forestalled. Anger with Poisson capitulating under curiosity, Zebbidy gave a confused quirk of her brow and turned back to the Mafia leader.

"It would seem that the feeling is mutual, _Monsieur Poisson_," she retorted, making no effort to hide the snideness in her tone.

With a sigh, Sands pushed the interrogation further. "So you're his granddaughter."

Zebbidy confirmed, "Correct."

"Through who?" Lynné asked, leaning slightly forward in her chair. "Last I checked, neither Alphonse nor Vincent had any kids."

"Last you checked, Zeb and Poisson weren't blood related," Sands commented sardonically, throwing Zebbidy a look of loathing that didn't quite reveal the betrayal he felt.

Swallowing the lump of shame that had swelled inside her throat, Zebbidy tried her best to answer the agent's question.

"Vincent and Alphonse are not Monsieur Poisson's only sons. Or they weren't, at one point. There was a third boy – born before the others – named Gérard." She smiled faintly. "My father… He was the heir to the family business. All of the money, the houses, the cars, the power… Everything that had belonged to my –" Zebbidy gave a little cough that did nothing to mask her resentment " – _grandfather_ would go to Gérard in the event of death."

"Let me guess," Sands drawled leisurely, "he didn't want any of it."

Zebbidy nodded.

"The Mafia business always disgusted my father. Taking so many lives and ruining so many families... Plus, there was the trust factor to consider. Mobsters are the quintessential backstabbers. There's no trust in a Mafia ring; only betrayal and lies. You can't even trust your own family –"

"_Enough!_" Poisson roared, exploding out of his chair, fury blazing within the once-cold depths of his eyes. Had his fuse been any shorter, Sands felt certain that the Mafia don would have lunged across his desk and wrapped his ring-encrusted fingers around Zebbidy's pale, fragile neck, letting nothing stop him from strangling his granddaughter right then and there. For his part, Sands remained impassive, his face an expressionless mask made of stone. As cognizant as he was of the limited longevity of Poisson's temper, Sands very much doubted he would spring into action should the mobster attempt to harm Zebbidy.

**_But you _owe _her, Sheldon, _**the voice reminded him.

_Screw that, _he fermented. _She betrayed me, thereby revoking all debts that could've been held over my head._

"Mademoiselle Samhain," Poisson was threatening vehemently when Sands tuned back in. "If you –"

"You still call me that," Zebbidy muttered, her head slowly shaking back and forth as she lowered her gaze to the ground, eyeing the olive green carpeting. "Even though I'm a Poisson…you refuse to acknowledge the fact."

Her grandfather recoiled, his entire body going rigid, save for his hands. The rage he was struggling to suppress was coursing throughout him with such force that his aged hands shook.

"If my bastard of a son hadn't turned his back on the family –"

"_Turned his back?_" Zebbidy exclaimed, hatred boiling in her vivid green eyes. "If anything, _you _forced him into leaving! The abandonment wasn't his choice!"

"Wasn't his _choice?_" Poisson echoed cuttingly. "Believe me, _ma chérie_, your father turned his back when he _chose _to discard the noble, privilege of a name – the title of _Poisson_ – and take up that impudent coquette…that foul _Irlandaise_…he took _her name_ – "

"After _you_ disowned him!" Zebbidy shouted.

_Boy, _Lynné thought with only a small portion of sincerity. _Wish my dad would do that for me…_

Zebbidy pealed away a shock of auburn hair that had broken free from the humiliatingly flimsy prison that was her ponytail. The thought that had drifted through Lynné Sands' head, as lazily as a leaf would on a placid lake, had filtered into Zebbidy's own mind, causing her train of thought to derail. But only momentarily. Her thoughts were soon back on their track, poised and armed with a hoard of curses as Poisson opened his mouth to berate:

"That damned woman – your _mother _– brainwashed my son –"

"If that's true, then she succeeded in doing what you never could," Zebbidy countered frostily, immensely relieved that the anger and fear that had her interior so rattled had not pushed through and made itself noticeable.

"Um, e-excuse me, but…" Liam interjected, less than eager to see Zebbidy and Poisson attack each other with another round of insults. "It…it's just that, well…aren't you kind of…forestalling Zebbidy's explanation? Both of you?" he quickly added when he saw Poisson's eyes flash a warning.

Then, slowly, a cold smile spread across the Mafia don's senescent face.

"You're quite right, Monsieur Fusco," he said, his voice so soft it would have scarcely captured the attention of the room had it not been for the subtle hint of patronization that lay hidden in his tone – a mere glimmer of a condescending island amid a blasé sea. His cruel eyes flickered, coming to rest on his granddaughter. His sneer widened.

Zebbidy managed to subdue the desire to roll her eyes, but she could not help the small sigh that blew past her lips.

"Once upon a time…" Lynné offered dryly, her dark eyes tilted toward the ceiling.

Not even giving her a single glance, but recognizing her impatience nonetheless Zebbidy opened her mouth and began, taking the agent's lead and allowing the timeless opening line to pass through her mouth.

"Once upon a time…in a not-so-faraway land known as France…there lived a man named Édouard Gustave Poisson. When he turned 28, he decided to marry, choosing a beautiful young lady named Gabrielle as his bride. She was exactly what he wanted – weak-willed, docile, puerile… He wanted a woman who could be easily broken; one who would hold her tongue around guests and jump at the chance to serve him. And he found that in Gabrielle.

"But she soon proved her worth after she had given birth to their first child. A _son_. The very heir Édouard craved Three more sons followed shortly after that…as did Gabrielle's death.

"A single bullet to the brain was deemed 'suicide' by the mortician," Zebbidy explained, her voice gradually becoming thick with dark clouds. "Although some would say otherwise… But Édouard did not mourn over his wife's death for long; he still had four sons, after all. The eldest one was named Gérard, the second one they called Jules, the middle child went by Vincent, and the youngest, puniest, most dull-witted son was called Alphonse." She shot a pleasant smile over Poisson's shoulder when she saw Alphonse's eyes narrow.

"Now," she continued genially, "Poisson's three sons all went on to achieve great things – save for Alphonse, but that was all right because no one had expected much out of him in the first place. But Vincent excelled in the artistic world – though many suspected he was gay, but what did they know? Jules was a good boy… He even managed to elope and produce a child before he and his lovely wife perished in a car accident. And Gérard's intellect proved to be great, but that didn't satisfy his father."

Poisson scowled but said nothing. Pretending not to notice him, Zebbidy twitched her nose and continued.

"As he grew older, Gérard became more open-minded. He saw the things his father did and he didn't like them at _all_. When he turned eighteen, he began attending a private college in England –"

"It was that damn school that turned him against us," Alphonse spat in disgust. It is possible that his rant was not finished, but after a pointed glare from both Zebbidy and his father, Alphonse had no choice but to lapse into a brooding silence.

"It was that _damn college_," Zebbidy said mordantly, "that finally accomplished what thousands could not: College broke through the barrier Poisson had built around his son. After being away from his family for a year, it was all too clear to Gérard that he could not return to Paris, for he would never be content under the puissant reign of his father. And so, he – "

"Fled," Poisson finished.

"_Left_," his granddaughter corrected. "But not alone. While in England, Gérard met someone. A _woman_…by the name of Fiona. It was she who convinced Gérard to leave Europe, actually."

_You mean brainwashed, _Alphonse thought bitterly, but he didn't say a word, choosing instead to eye his so-called niece with extant resentment. In turn, Zebbidy paid no mind to his ire, and continued with her story.

"They were in love, although some would refuse to agree." As she said this, Sands noted that Zebbidy deliberately avoided looking at Poisson or Alphonse. She refused them a mere glance, moving onward with effortless aplomb.

"They moved to the US shortly after they had completed college, and soon changed their names –"

"Odysseus and Helena Samhain," Édouard supplied with typical impudence, indicating that he thought the choices of titles were absurd. "Such charming, honorable names," he commented sneeringly. "

Zebbidy's teeth clenched at the effrontery, but she schooled her features into stoicism. She had endured Poisson's rudeness for far to long to let it effect her now. "Gérard and Fiona – now Odysseus and Helena – settled down on a small island off the coast of Wisconsin – the island where Fiona had grown up. For, you see, she was not what you would consider normal. She had the rare, yet extremely valuable gift of precognition. ESP, as some call it. She could read minds – emotions, to be more specific – and sometimes there would be 'visions' of people in need, and Fiona would do all she could to help them.

"Not long after they had arrived in America, the two were married and no more than a year later… I showed up. However, their peace only lasted about fire years. Poisson somehow learned of his son's whereabouts, he quickly sent several of his men out to…collect them."

Her diction began to falter as the wraiths of her childhood seeped into the room. Opaline, wispy figures came in underneath the door, through the cracks in the ceiling, and the open windows, unnoticed by the others, but feared by Zebbidy. As the ghastly eidolons coiled themselves around her slender throat like a silvery skein that invaded her larynx and pitilessly wreaking havoc upon her vocal cords, reducing her voce to nothing more than a thin, wavering susurration.

"Instead of going quietly, my parents struggled, choosing to fight rather than give up the freedom they worked so hard to achieve. Needless to say, Poisson's henchmen weren't pleased. Shots were fired…"

The skein tightened painfully around her neck and Zebbidy was forced to duck her head and issue a small cough. She refused to capitulate under a slew of macabre memories of her parent's deaths, no matter how difficult they were to efface.

"The rest is easy enough to figure out. My parents were shot and killed in their own home, and I suddenly found myself on the threshold of France's biggest Mafia don. Until I was fourteen, of course, and ran away to the States. I'd been moving from place to place for nearly eleven years before I finally settled down once again on that little island off the coast of Wisconsin. There I met my grandmother Ashling – my _mother's _mother – and she taught me everything she had taught my mother: teas, different herbs, symbology, candles… for she was a powerful healer.

"Nine years passed before Poisson caught up with me, and when he did, I did the only thing I could think of: I went to the authorities. After nine years of peace, I was tired of running, and besides…" She distractedly smoothed back a strand of auburn hair. "I didn't want to get my grandmother involved. Little did I know the CIA would hand me over to Poisson, rather than hide me."

She eyed her grandfather with dour obduracy, falling silent.

"And they lived happily ever after," Lynné finished, sounding just as sardonic as when she last spoke. "Except for the agents Sands, of course, and quite possibly Liam Fusco, who were all condemned to a good long torture session in which their testicles and/or vagina were severely assaulted."

"Oooh," Sands remarked, intrigued. "Kinky. You two should enjoy that," he added as an afterthought to his sister and Liam.

"We'll ensure they don't," Ajedrez informed him in that excruciatingly mellifluous tone that stretched his self-restraint to the limit. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed to abstain from expressing his rage as he lightly replied:

"I dunno. I've seen these two perform some pretty twisted stunts."

Ajedrez's eyebrows puckered in skepticism.

"You watch?"

Sands shrugged. "I like to think it's a bad habit I got from you. After all, according to Lyn, it's not like you and your lapdog can partake in sexual activities anymore. So what choice do you have other than watching Adrián and…let's say…Rosa Hernandez…do the nasty?"

"I was deprived of my sexual privileges _after _you –"

"Yeah," Sands said in dubious agreement as he furrowed his brow in farce concentration. "But…most people don't turn to watching right away. My guess is –" he smiled cheekily "— you had some pre-watching in stock."

* * *

Despite its owner's best efforts, the lower jaw of Didier Abney slowly fell open, stretching his lips into a wide 'O.' As a faint blush stained his wide cheekbones, Didier quickly hid his yawning mouth with his hand. Nervously, he twirled his index finger around a chestnut colored lock of his thick, curly hair and stole a glance at the man standing next to him. From the way he kept shifting his weight from foot to foot, it was obvious that Didier was not the only one who was bored. Fellow mobster Gilbert Bodine was growing tired of guard duty as well. Looking up at Gilbert with his sleek, dark hair gleaming in the muted light of the hallway, each finely toned muscle encased in the soft cotton of his shirt and denim of his jeans, and his chiseled mug, Didier could not help but feel inadequate. It did not help that Gilbert was three years his senior, but the fact that the man was a sex god to the ladies only made Didier seem like less virile, and more like a prepubescent teenager. Which was why he always strived to prove his capability of handling any situation – even the most dangerous. However, making his ingenuity known was easier said than done when the only task he was given was that of a guard. His orders were insultingly juvenile: 'Stand watch outside Monsieur Poisson's office. He is having an important meeting. Do not allow anyone entrance.' 

Didier rolled his eyes, debating whether he should risk a conversation with Gilbert or not when the man in question suddenly sprang to attention.

"_Arrêt_!" ordered Gilbert's rough voice. "_Qui est là?" (Who's there?)_

Didier was still fumbling with his handgun when he heard Gilbert draw a staggering breath.

"_Messieurs,_" he murmured apologetically. "_Désolé… mais vous ne pouvez pas entrer._" (Sorry…but you cannot enter.)

"_Je ne peux pas voir mon propre père?_" (I cannot see my own father?) challenged Vincent Poisson, his composure calm despite his angered tone. His hands were folded neatly behind his back, resting lightly against his gray, tweed jacket. Beside him stood a tall, gracefully aging man whom Didier guessed had to be in his late '50s, judging by the patches of silver that sprouted from his temples. The ebony fabric of his pressed slacks swallowed up his right hand, but it was the left hand that provoked Didier's curiosity. For that hand gingerly cupped the tiny, porcelain fingers of a little girl.

"_Je suis désolé,_" (I'm sorry,) Gilbert told Poisson's son, "_mais j'ai des ordres_ –" (but I have orders–)

"_Aussi bien que moi_," (As do I,) Vincent fermented, warning flashing in his frigid eyes.

"_Pourquoi est elle ici?_" (Why is she here?) Didier intruded in upon their conversation, his wonder getting the better of him as he pointed a large, index finger at Joséphine. "_M. Poisson a voulu qu'elle soit restée dans sa pièce_–" (Mr. Poisson wanted her to stay in her room –)

"Mon père _me vient d'envoyer le mode d'emploi_," (_My father _has just sent me instructions,) Vincent informed him smoothly, "_demandant que sa petite-fille être apporté à son bureau immédiatement_." (demanding that his granddaughter be brought to his office immediately.)

"_Il ne m'aurait pas informé d'abord?_" (Wouldn't he have informed me first?) Gilbert demurred, a sharp crease of suspicion taking shape on his forehead.

Vincent shook his head. "_Pas probablement. Vous savez comment occupé il est._" (Not likely. You know how busy he is.)

"_Exactement_," Gilbert agreed evenly. "_Pourquoi aurait-il le temps à vous être appelés?_" (Why would he have time to call you?)

Didier's eyes widened in confusion as he tore them away from the little girl and her towering guardian to throw a stunned glance at his fellow guard, all the while wondering with fascinated trepidation what Gilbert was playing at.

"_Je suis son fils_ –" (I am his son – )Vincent Poisson began, his lean body appearing to magnify with his ever-mounting ire.

"_Je veux voir mon grand-père!_" (I want to see my grandfather!) little Joséphine demanded suddenly. In an instant every set of eyes was on her elfin form – not that the child could have known this. She wrenched her hand free of the stranger's grasp and proceeded to fold her twig-thin arms over her chest and whispered fiercely, "_Maintenant_."

* * *

"All right… Heartwarming as it may be, let's cut the family reunion short, an focus on what's really important: my leg." Lynné observed Poisson through those dark, disingenuous eyes that seemed to harbor an erudition that expanded beyond her years. "It appears to have gone missing and I was wondering if anyone around here had seen it?" 

"I could loan you one of mine," Ajedrez sighed contemptuously, "but there's the problem of _length_." Her smirk was acerbic as she eyed the svelte, little waif of a human being seated in the adjacent chair.

Peeking through twin thrums of long, graceful lashes, Lynné favored her with a shrug that expressed just how decrepit the obloquy had been.

"Funny," she remarked mildly. "I was just thinking the _exact _same thing…only it was something along the lines of: 'I could swipe one of hers, but that wouldn't work. They're much too…robust…for _me _to handle.'" She flashed one of her exasperating grins, cocking her head to one side. "Isn't that right, Xena?"

**

* * *

**

"_Mon père m'a téléphoné avec le mode d'emploi qui a dit qu'elle doit lui être apportée._" (My father phoned me with instructions that said that she must be brought to him.) Vincent ran a hand through his expertly coifed hair, his face taunt with frustration.

"_Et où est votre évidence de cela?_" (And where is your evidence of this?) Gilbert continued to drill.

"_Évidence?_" Vincent echoed. His voice had been hollowed out by disbelief, only to be occluded with a restrained anger. "_Il est mon _père!" (He's my _father!_)

"_Je veux voir mon grand-père!_" (I want to see my grandfather!) Joséphine repeated, her demand bordering on the brink of a wail. But that was the plan. Be loud; not so loud that her grandfather overheard, but just enough to worry the guards into submission. The scheme Oncle Vincent had formulated was almost insultingly simple, but highly effective. No sooner had Joséphine begun to fuss than one of the guards' tough, outer walls began to quiver, becoming no stronger than the shell of a chicken egg. Five seconds later, it had cracked, leaving a jagged hamartia between two halves of a smooth, pearly blockade.

"Gilbert," Didier began, his feeble bricolage of an exterior already beginning to crumble under the burning, arduous gaze of the tiny child. It would not be long before his shell ceded completely and was reduced to nothing more than a pile of shattered worthlessness.

"Gilbert," he implored again. "_Laissez-les passer. Nous devrions les laisser passer._" (Let them through. We should let them through.)

"_M. Poisson serait furieux_," (Mr. Poisson would be angry,) was the clipped response.

"_Mais... Je dois le voir_," (But…I must see him,) the child insisted meekly, ardor replaced by need. "_S'il vous plaît…laissez-moi le voir_." (Please…let me see him.)

Joséphine could almost hear a creak as Gilbert's will began to bow to her while its owner fought to abstain it.

"_Vous seriez sages pour réaliser la demande de l'enfant_," (You would be wise to fulfil the request of the child,) Vincent warned the pair of guards. "_Elle peut commencer à crier - un son que mon père ne voudra pas entendre. Et je suis sûr que il ne serait pas heureux si vous avez attristé sa petite-fille._" (She can begin shouting - a sound that my father will not want to hear. And I am sure that my father would not be happy if you saddened his granddaughter.)

Joséphine's lower lip began to tremble, crushing Gilbert's protective shell for good. He gave a short, jerk of a nod and a tense: "_D'accord_," and turned to open the door by which he stood.

With Gilbert facing the door and Didier's attention focused on little Joséphine, neither man noticed when Poisson's son and the stranger drew two pistols from their coats, raised them high above their heads, and brought them with crushing force down on the guard's heads.

* * *

"There is no need to be concerned for your leg, Mlle Sands," Poisson ensured them in that infuriatingly correlating tone of his. "Shortly, you will find it completely unnecessary." 

"Could we take that as a threat?" Sands intervened lightly.

Poisson's features coalesced into a cold grin.

"You could."

"Oh. Cuz I'm not," the agent replied, glancing idly at his fingernails which were suddenly much more interesting than the irate Mafia leader.

A scowl immediately egressed Poisson's antique face, and the mobster opened his mouth, perhaps to warn Sands that he would be wise to express more concern for his well-being, but a sharp knock at the door of the office severely ruined any caution Poisson might have expressed.

"_What?_" Electricity seemed to radiate from his every pore as his voice thundered and his gray eyes flashed in fury.

"Adrián," Ajedrez commanded silkily, casually brushing her long fingers against her fiancé's ear. "Answer the door."

"Then shake hands with whoever's there, then roll over," Lynné chided, ignoring the malevolent glare she was receiving from Ajedrez and the veneer of anger Adrián put on as the brass doorknob was swallowed up by his large palm.

"Then fetch Ajedrez her slippers –"

"You forgot 'play dead,'" a gruff voice reminded Lynné.

No one saw Adrián's eyes widen as he was drenched with cold, fearful realization. No one took notice of his body as it went rigid in the vice grip of terror. But they heard the voice, and the deafening bang that followed.

The muscular form of Ajedrez's fiancé now lay crumpled at the feet of its attacker. Already it was growing stiff with rigor mortis as thick waves of crimson gushed from the black chasm in its chest, tarnishing the thick carpeting below. All was quiet, staring in fascinated horror at the desiccating body of Adrián Gallardo. Silence reigned supreme, commanding them all with an iron fist until –

"_Adrián!_"

Ajedrez's piercing shriek of anguish was equivalent to a blow to Sands' already revolving head. He longed to offer a few words of comfort to the poor woman. After all, loosing Adrián wasn't the end of the world. With the amount of power and money she had in stock, Ajedrez could always buy a new lapdog.

**_Something tells me that now isn't the best time to say that,_** the voice whispered needlessly.

_No shit, _was Sands' automatic response as his attention was glued to the shuddering Ajedrez who was making vain attempts to revive her fallen lover. Even from his far off position, Sands could see that any hop of resurrection was false. Ajedrez's little love-slave had danced that last tango in Paris, and he had not required a partner.

**_Guess nobody told him it takes more than two to tango._**

_Too bad._

Behind him, Poisson had risen from his chair, his weathered face aflame with rage. In three mammoth strides he had crossed the room, gun raised, ready to shoot whoever stood just outside the door.

"_Vincent?_"

"Father."

"Get down!" someone yelled.

Sands didn't need to be told twice. With one hand on top of his sister's head and the other gripping the back of Zebbidy's neck, Sands dove to the floor, pulling the two women down with him.

"Nobody has a gun on 'em, right?" Lyn's voice sounded muffled, as if she was speaking into the floor.

"Uhh…"

Three pairs of eyes – two deep brown, one vibrant green – turned to witness the crouched form of Liam Fusco unzipping his fly and retrieving a small, jet-black handgun wit the greatest care. Smiling nervously at the wary look on Lynné's face, Liam held out the pistol.

His partner shrugged.

"Well, they trust you more than I do."

* * *

Shots roared overhead as bullets pelted through the air. They mercilessly shattered the massive windows that stood at one end of the room, and splintering the mahogany door at the other. The two couches that faced each other on either side of the office were being destroyed, stuffing bleeding from wounds in their green velvet skins. The bookshelves that rose from floor to ceiling and ran the length of the office were being demolished. Shreds of paper raining down as indistinguishable fragments of poetry, art, history of war, science, mathematics, and family trees littered the air. 

Still the gunfire went on, ravaging the once immaculate office without remorse. The team of CIA agents and Zebbidy quickly sought shelter behind Poisson's gargantuan desk while the war between father and son raged on. By now Alphonse had joined the fight, shooting blindly into the darkened hallway. It was not long before he fell with a bullet implanted in his spine, compliments of Lynné who miraculously remained unseen.

With a leonine roar, Édouard Poisson launched himself at Vincent, his son, the last remaining male heir to the family business. It didn't matter that Vincent had been in line before Alphonse. Never mind that Alphonse had not lived up to his father's, Édouard Poisson's expectations – at least he had made an effort. Even if Alphonse's attempts to be an efficient son had ended in failure, in Poisson's eyes, he had accomplished more than Vincent ever would. And now he was dead, brought down by his querulous, wayward brother. It was more than Édouard Poisson could bear.

He tore through the room, dodging bullets with the vigor of a man half his age. Revenged fueled his arthritic limbs as he raced toward Vincent. Fury pulsated throughout his body as he watched his only remaining heir pull the trigger, intending to kill his own father and walk away without a single trace of guilt.

A dull click echoed throughout the room.

Édouard Poisson knew he needn't look upon Vincent's face to understand what had happened. The shock in his son's voice was proof enough.

"_Merde!_"

The trumpets of victory sounded – a beautiful fanfare in Édouard's elated ears. The glorious music roared all around him, but its deafening volume was irrelevant to the Mafia leader. To him the only sounds that mattered were the cold click of a worthless gun and Vincent's cry of anguish. Édouard gave an indolent shrug, excess grace sliding from his shoulders like water as he waved his own pistol vaguely.

"_Désolé, mon fils,_" (Sorry, my son,) he apologized tonelessly."_Mais vous le méritez._" (But you deserve this.)

With the triumphant music still blaring in his ears, Poisson trained his firearm on his son. The commotion caused by the glorious brass instruments thundered ceaselessly, but the mobster's gaze was unobstructed and his thoughts were lucid. He aimed his gun, pointing it directly at Vincent's left collarbone. He didn't intend to kill his son – death was not a fitting punishment for what Vincent had done. If his son was merely left with a paralyzed arm, then Édouard's thirst for retribution. His fingers tightened around the handle of his firearm. His index digit itched to pull the trigger, but first Édouard had to favor his only son with a smirk. In his ears, the trumpets played on, plaguing him with their brassy melodies until he began to wonder if he had gone mad with the loss of Alphonse.

And then, quite suddenly, the noise stopped. For a moment, silence ruled with a clumsy hand, wielding a crooked scepter. All held their breath in tacit wonderment as the Mafia don glared around him in fury.

His silver pistol fell to the floor with a clatter so soft that Édouard barely acknowledged it. His entire arm had gone stiff as a dreadful numbness began to overtake his entire body. From some far off corner of his slowly depleting mind he was aware of the sudden drop in temperature that wasn't caused by the pair of shattered windows behind him. The only warmth he felt was the strange, viscid substance that now coated his fingertips.

"_Désolé, mon copain,_" a gruff voice murmured at the doorway just as Édouard Poisson brought his hands from the leaking bullet wound at his chest and crumpled to the floor.

* * *

_This was originally to be much longer, however, after so many days of writer's block, I decided to go ahead and cut this chapter a little short and paste the scenes that followed that last one onto Chapter Fifty-One. (shrug) At least this one's kinda long. And a lot happens in it too, so it's not like it's completely uneventful. _:D 

_Oh, and everybody go and check out Sands and Lynné's dead journal, if you please. I recently had some free time during school – time that I made use of by making some changes to their journal, ones that I think you'll all find very amusing. _;D _So go take a look! _

_Also, for everyone who was reading _Impromptu, _it's been taken down. I came to realize that, despite my meticulous perusing, I'd overlooked one major flaw in the story. Plus I've read several Mary-Sue bashing fics and noted that the Sues that were being lambasted shared several qualities with my female character. So, I took the story down. However, after this is finished, _Impromptu_ shall be posted again if people are still willing to read it. _:)

_And as a quick note: Never. Use. Community. Stage makeup. _Especially _against your own will. It only ends in tragedy, as well as prolonged writing projects. Believe me._

**Author's Thanks and Review Responses:**

**morph: **Glad the twist caught you off guard. :D I honesty thought I was being too obvious about it, but most of my worries have ceased by now. u.u I love the idea of Sands performing Morse Code because he seems like the kind of guy who would have all of these seemingly worthless skills and then find a way to put them to use. Liam's a loser, most definitely. u.u But he's really the perfect guy for Lyn, as strange as that sounds. She's tried dating bad boys before and doesn't care for them. I think it's because she needs someone weak that she can push around, whereas Sands can pretty much order anyone around and they'll listen. :D

**vanillafluffy: **I cracked up over _Queer Eye for the Straight Don_ X3 Knowing Poisson, he's too preoccupied to pick out his own attire, so he most likely has someone else do it for him. And I know the Queer Eye Guys did an Euro trip at some point. O.o And Sands still isn't too quick on the uptake as far as family history goes. You'd think after Ajedrez he's know better, but then again, Zeb covered her tracks pretty well and he didn't have any reason to suspect her of anything. (shrug)

**Dawnie-7:** If you laughed out loud at the thought of Sands banging Josey, then I have fulfilled all of my goals for the last chapter :D

**fanfiction fanatic:** There has been a severe lack of OUaTiM fics as of late. Hardly anyone has updated and the few new stories that are being posted border dangerously close to Mary-Sue fics. I will most definitely try to hurry up with the next installment. Thankfully, I'm already halfway done with the chapter.

**Lynx Ryder:** Thanks to you, I've taken to referring to Lyn and Liam as PKIs:D I severely wish I knew Morse Code, if only for that brief bit in the story. Same thing goes for Latin, but there's no one in this area who's willing to teach it :( Sands should've known better than to think that Poisson was implying that he and Josey were "an item," but you can blame me for the density of the comment – I only wrote if for the laughs :D; Olsen Twins…yes XD It's most likely the largest in-joke in this entire story, but the short explanation is that, when he's not being plagued by nightmares about Ajedrez, Sands is having dreams about shagging the Olsen Twins. Somewhere, there's a post in Lyn's Dead Journal in which he describes the first dream. And once again, I sincerely apologize for the long wait. I'll try my best not to let that happen again, especially with only two chapters left to go.

o


	51. They All Fall Down

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Chapter Fifty-One: **They All Fall Down

Finally, the chapter you've all been patiently waiting for. The last chapter! I'll be sorry to see this fic go, especially since, while I have characters and scenes for a third story, I have no real plans of writing one. I hate saying that, truly I do. However, though I may not post a third installment, I may just write up the scenes that I have and post them in a kinda one-shot fic. Hmm…maybe. In any case, enjoy the final chapter :D

* * *

"David!" Lynné exclaimed delightedly as the solemn face of David Moreau detached itself of the shadows. 

"Mademoiselle," he began with stiff formality as he tucked a sleek handgun into his suit jacket, "I do not like you. At times I see you as the very bane of my existence. However, I would rather see you live than have you die at the hands of Édouard Poisson."

"Good to kno –" Lynné was about to say before she was cut off by when the terrified cry of "_Mademoiselle!_" sliced through the air. In a matter of seconds Joséphine had darted into the room and flung her arms around Lyn's torso.

"_Mademoiselle, j'ai été si inquiété! Et Oncle Vincent m'a dit d'être silencieux - mais les gardiens ne nous laisseraient pas à l'intérieur! Donc j'ai dû parler! Et ensuite .. alors nous étions à l'intérieur ... et le M. Moreau a tué Grand-père! Mais je ne me soucie pas, mlle! Je ne me soucie pas!_" (Mademoiselle, I was so worried! And Uncle Vincent told me to be quiet -- but the guards wouldn't let us in! So I had to say something! And then..then we were inside... and M. Moreau killed grandfather! But I don't care, mlle! I don't care!) The child barely paused to take a breath as she unleashed her verbose explanation. Suddenly, she let out a gasp, pulling away from Lyn as if the young woman were radiating heat. "_Mlle ... où est votre jambe?_" (Miss…where is your leg?)

"Good question," Lynné responded. Completely ignoring the child's aghast demeanor, she looked to Liam and pointedly demanded, "Where _is_ my leg?"

"I, um –"

"In his desk, I presume," Moreau supplied, striding through the wreckage to Lynné, careful not to let a single speck of blood touch his expensive footwear. Behind him, Vincent Poisson was carefully lifting the limp wrist of his father, hoping he would not find a pulse.

"Would a leg fit in a desk?" Liam questioned stupidly.

"It is a rather large desk, Monsieur," Moreau said with a patronizing glance toward the young agent. Without another word he began to rummage through the titanic desk of the late Édouard Poisson.

"'Stab Fish with pen…'" Lynné quipped, turning her gaze from Moreau to her irate brother. "Couldn't come up with something more…effective?"

"At the time? No," Sands replied shortly, eyeing Zebbidy with contempt. "Besides, not everyone is as gifted in the art of Morse Code as you."

"Did you find it, David?" Vincent demanded, kicking his brother's cadaver away in disgust.

"I believe so," Moreau answered, beaming as he lifted the artificial limb in triumph.

* * *

Swathed in a web of grief, Ajedrez had slipped out of Poisson's office undetected. She had escaped with her life and yet she found that it was very difficult to care. Adrián, her fiancé, was dead, murdered before her own eyes. Strange how a person such as herself – who was so accustomed to death – could feel so utterly woebegone. 

Drenched in numbness, Ajedrez drifted through the darkened halls, barely acknowledging the twists and turns that her path contained. It was so odd for her to behave this way, so different from her normal, callous self. Immediately she knew why she despised emotions. They were a nuisance. Love got in the way of everyday life, anger obstructed one's vision, and depression could sometimes be so forceful that people would take their own lives just to escape it.

Yes, being callous was good. When she wore the mask of apathy, frivolous emotions were not permitted to enter her system. Stoicism was her barrier. It had shielded her during her father's harrowing orders, his unpredictable conniption, and his constant conjectures toward her loyalties. And now the strong shield of apathy would protect her from the grief that threatened to consume her entirely.

_Adrián…_ What had he been to her other another sycophant looking for a handout, seeking her charity, specifically her money? Of course he had been there for her – _Pretended to be there_, she corrected herself – during the long, dark months that followed _El Día de los Muertos_. How could he not have? It would have been insane to pass up such a marvelous opportunity, and Adrián had known it. When he found Ajedrez lying half-dead in the middle of the street on the Day of the Dead, he had seized the chance and clung to it as if _his _life were on the line instead of hers.

_Gold-digging pajiera… He was only after my money._

Though the words held the same razor-sharp fury, they lacked conviction, and Ajedrez knew that, even if she admitted to hating Adrián out loud in front of three witnesses, she would only be fooling herself. And even _she _might not believe her lies.

* * *

"God _damn _it!" 

With a perfunctory sign, Richard Harrington glanced up from the living room's marble fireplace, absentmindedly returning the wrought-iron poker to its proper place alongside the tools. He had been busying himself with stroking the flames in the hopes that he would free himself from his fiancée's trite animosity toward Lynné Sands, the CIA, her hair, Édouard Poisson, and the world in general. And Harrington had nearly succeeded. He had just removed the poker from its stand when Catherine chose to cry the Lord's name in vain.

"What's wrong, Kitty?" he droned, his eyes focused on the ceiling.

"Édouard Poisson is _dead!_"

Harrington whirled around. "What?"

"Alphonse, too. They're both dead. Shot."

"By who?" he demanded, aghast.

"_Vincent!_"

"Vincent _Poisson?_" Harrington gave her a blank stare, his mouth hanging open stupidly.

"Of _course_ Vincent Poisson," Cat sneered.

"Who'd you think it was, Richie? Van Gaugh? Man's not the murdering type, though he _did _amputate his own ear…but that may have been brought on from eating lead-based paint."

Whipping around toward the direction of the speaker, Cat's mouth dropped open in horror as a lithe figure detached itself from the shadows of Poisson's great living room. It let its footsteps echo across the silvery marble tiles as it strode gracefully across the room.

"Boy, Kitty," Lynné sighed, shaking her head in wonderment, "I gotta hand it to ya. When you go shopping for future husbands, you don't screw around."

Cat's black eyes narrowed as she watched her stepsister meander about the living room.

"I mean, Larry was a real looker – not my type, but still a looker. And then there was Travis. A little too…reserved for my taste. Then again, I'm bangin' Fusco, so I can't talk." Lynné smiled benignly, though her eyes glittered with acerbity. "But now that you're with Richie, they're in the past, right?"

Cat said nothing.

"You're entering dangerous territory, Lynné," Harrington warned, his eminent form silhouetted against the blaze in the fireplace.

"Oh, Rich, I've already entered and am half way out. All I have to deal with now," she sighed, "is you."

"What about Ajedrez?" Cat demanded.

"Oh," Lyn said offhandedly, "Sands is taking care of her."

* * *

Zebbidy watched helplessly as Sands moved toward the end of the hallway, his footsteps inaudible even against the hardwood floors. He didn't look at her, but shifted his oft-used pistol from his left hand to his right and peered around the corner. Nothing. He moved on, not waiting for Zebbidy Poisson to follow. 

"I apologized, didn't I?" There was a faint squeaking from behind as Zebbidy's boots creaked when their owner sprinted to catch up. "What more do you want?"

"Quiet would be nice. I'm trying to listen."

To Sands' annoyance, Zebbidy ignored the request, as he knew she would.

"I would have told you earlier," she attempted to amend, "had I known about –"

"Zeb, just…shut the fuck up, all right? Can you do that for me? Good."

At last Zebbidy's lips came together and she said no more, leaving Sands to his long sought after censorship. He continued his trek through the massive home, which was gradually becoming more and more like a jungle to him as he pressed onward. A wispy ghost of a memory came unexpected as he turned a corner, one involving an eccentric heiress who had, in her old age, been convinced that malignant spirits were out to get her. Her panic had quickly developed into madness, and she spent her inheritance on a colossal, maze-like house that included staircases that ended at the ceilings, doors that lead to nowhere, and a number of dizzying twists and turns.

_Good thing Poisson didn't live long enough to go that nuts._

_**He was gettin' there. Wonder how long it'll take before the insanity of a grieving heiress affects Ajedrez?**_

_You kidding? She's hardly "grieving," and anyway she's already fuckin' deranged. How crazy do you want her?_

"The man wasn't my grandfather," Zebbidy suddenly declared with quiet defiance. Sands noted that she was careful to use past tense when referring to the late M. Poisson. "Not to me," she said as an afterthought, almost to herself.

Sands said nothing. Apparently playing lookout was more difficult than it appeared. That, or Sands' multitasking skills were abysmal.

"I just want you to know," she began, trying another tactic, "had I known what she'd done to you, I never would have –"

"I just want _you _to know, Zeb," Sands cut in neatly, turning to face her, "that withholding information is a _very _serious crime. A federal offence, actually. And you kept your info to yourself for how long? Six – no, seven months? Gosh, I don't even wanna _think _about the time you're gonna serve."

He watched as Zebbidy bowed her head, red tresses acting as a shield from his scathing remarks. Disgusted, he abruptly turned on his heel and strode down the hall, allowing himself to be consumed by the shadows.

* * *

Tension filled the air as Liam crouched beside an armoire waiting for chaos to unfold. It was expected whenever his partner was put in charge of a situation. Like Mary and her sheep, wherever Lynné Sands went, mayhem was sure to follow. 

Liam exhaled slowly.

A slight pressure in his back made him jump. Someone grabbed his arm and he turned so quickly the muscles in his neck pulled harshly against the strain. Joséphine's eyes narrowed in annoyance as she poked his arm again and raised her finger to her lips. The message was clear: _Be quiet._

_She probably thinks I'm _trying _to give us away,_ Liam mused miserably. He and Lynné may have discovered that they shared a less-than-common interest, but he knew that he had a long journey ahead of him before he gained forgiveness – a journey whose path was both grueling and treacherous. And now, apparently, Joséphine had decided that he wasn't trustworthy. Liam couldn't say that he blamed her. As far as the child knew, Liam had betrayed her unwilling guardian, Lynné Sands. Worse yet, he had handed Lynné over to Édouard Poisson, a man whose evil Joséphine had grown all too accustomed with.

With a pointless nod, Liam turned away from the tiny girl, his mind now focused resolutely on Lynné. She was speaking with Agent Johnson, – "Cat," as the woman preferred to be called – and from the looks of things Lynné had just uttered a particularly nasty epithet. Something about Cat having no taste in men.

Liam had to offer his silent congratulations to his partner. For nearly four years he had been working under her frosty gaze, yet he continued to be shocked by her eccentric antics, how she could remain completely unmoved in even the most lethal situations, and the way she would mutter "Cancer is overrated" whenever he would warn her about smoking. He knew of the sheer inanity of getting his partner to stop smoking. Lynné loved her cigarettes and didn't care if her addiction offended anyone, nor did she apologize for all of the secondhand smoke that said addiction created. And with the number of cigarettes Lynné inhaled, Liam wouldn't have been surprised if his lungs were as black as hers were.

He had grown rather attached to his partner after she lost her leg. It wasn't that he felt responsible for her – he knew full well that Lynné was perfectly capable of looking after herself, two legs or no. It was the strange, nagging guilt that always came whenever he had contemplated leaving her in Mexico. At the time he had not known what the meaning of that feeling was, but stunning revelations tend to have impeccable timing. In the past few hours the meaning had made itself all too clear.

_I am sexually involved with a crazy, one-legged CIA agent_, Liam realized, the thought hollow with disbelief. _And I love that woman. Damned if I don't._

* * *

"Where is Vincent Poisson?" Cat persisted. 

"Oh, you know about Vince?" Lynné said with mild surprise. "Currently he and the charming M. Moreau are scouring the mansion for Ajedrez and you two."

"_David _Moreau?"

"Yep."

Catherine gawked as her mind tried to digest this new information.

"David Moreau is a close, personal friend of Édouard Poisson," she tried to assure herself.

"Yeah," her stepsister agreed, "that's why he killed him."

Before she could stop herself, Cat's eyes widened in shock. Slightly fazed but determined nonetheless she stubbornly repeated, "Moreau is a personal frien –"

Lynné tsked. "That's so like you, Kitty. So closed-minded, so…_unimaginative_… Things change. Why is it _so _hard for you to accept that? Although," she said slowly, "I've gotta admit that whole 'exacting revenge on Lyn' plan was pretty unexpected."

Cat regarded her stepsister warily, albeit her amazement and, to a lesser extent, her smugness could not be completely quelled.

"Then again," Lynné mused evenly, "I guess I always figured you'd go crazy and try to kill me. After all, you always _have _had a grudge against me, and you've always seemed a little…" She made a seesawing gesture. "…out there. I mean, you had a crush on your _brother_. That's just messed up, hon."

"Sheldon's my _step_brother, Lynné, thank you very much," Cat sneered imprudently.

"Oh, so you're not going to defend my accusation? I did say you had a crush on him, you know. You're not going to fight that? Not even a little?" Lynné pretended to be crestfallen. "Oh, Kitty, I'm so disappointed…"

"_Enough!_" Harrington commanded, fixing Lynné with an inimical glare. In an instant the fire poker was in his vice grip and pointing it at the agent as a portent. "You have insulted my fiancée for the last time, Lynné! Consider yourself lucky that I'm giving you a warning when I should have just shot you the moment you entered the room."

Lynné rolled her eyes, unimpressed, and scoffed at Harrington. "Guess this is just a night for disappointments, ah?" She looked at him derisively. "A poker? Come on, that the best you can do? What's the matter, Richie? Don't you have a gun?"

Harrington said nothing and instead glared at her, stony-faced.

"No?" Lynné taunted. "Too bad. I do."

Richard Harrington was dead before he hit the floor.

The iron fire poker rattled briefly when it clattered against the marble hearth.

Lynné ignored her stepsister's earsplitting shriek while she calmly slipped her gun into its holster. She found it rather strange that Cat hadn't whipped out her own firearm by now and started firing blindly in Lynné's direction. Instead Cat was still overcome with grief, hurling empty threats at Lynné between the screams of sorrow.

"Oh _God_, Richard…_Richard_… You…Lynné…I'll kill you, Lynné," Catherine vowed brokenly. "I'll _kill you!_"

_That's more like it, _Lynné mused stooping to retrieve the fallen poker. She idly fingered the tool's handle as she took the time to turn several of the enkindled logs over. Steadily she watched as the tip of the poker grew increasingly hot, waiting for it to go from black to fiery orange, blazing yellow, and then at last a luminous white that permeate through the stygian room.

"_God_, I hate you, Lynné." Cat's shrill, querulous babbling pulled Lyn out of her reverie. "I _hate _you."

"I know," Lynné said quietly into the fire as she watched the poker's progress. The cusp was still a molten yellow. _Not yet._

"You just don't care," Cat accused caustically. "You never have."

"Gee, Cat, you just now figuring that out? No, wait. This is another one of those moments, right? Where the evil villain – you – expresses her general dislike for the good guy – _moi_. Then she rambles on about how a lifetime of hatred and bullying from the aforementioned good guy has turned her, the evil villain, into the –" she took a moment to choose the proper analysis for her stepsister " – repugnant, irascible, psychotic bitch we all know today."

Having said her piece, Lynné turned back to the fireplace and said nothing. To Catherine, it appeared as though the agent believed the conversation to be over. That or she merely found no importance in any conversation in which she was not the main speaker.

Though she could only make out Lynné's profile, Cat knew that the raffish smirk – an infuriating paragon of arrogance – had decided to grace her with its presence yet again.

"You know what your problem is, Kitty?" her stepsister suddenly asked, destroying Catherine's chances at starting a full-out battle royal. "You place blame on everyone but yourself. Granted, some rude comments have been made over the years. Pretty much everyone and their cousin has insulted you at least _once. _But instead of trying to decipher _why _the comments were made, you claim that those who made them were just jealous of you or trying to be mean – something along those lines. But Cat," she said very softly, "did you ever stop to consider that maybe, just…maybe…they were right? And that you had brought those comments on yourself by being such a bitchy little sycophant? Think about it. Although – " she paused to watch an enkindled log crumble as she speared its charred wood with the poker " – you've always been one to deny the truth about yourself. I'll bet this is boring for you, after all…it's just me voicing yourthoughts."

Without another word, she turned back to the poker and removed it from the fireplace. Beside her, the mental scale that kept Catherine's madness in balance teetered dangerously. It had been swaying ever since Lynné had entered the room, but Cat had managed to keep everything in check. It had been difficult, but she had managed nonetheless. Richard, her partner, her darling husband-to-be had been killed without a thought before her eyes, and still her mind had, more or less, remained symmetrical. But then those painfully truthful words had been uttered.

'_You place blame on everyone but yourself._'

'_You've always been one to deny the truth about yourself._'

It hadn't been much. It wasn't anything she hadn't heard before. But something about that offensively casual tone had been just enough to tip the scales of her mind and sent their contents spiraling into oblivion.

Lynné heard the familiar _click _of a gun's hammer being drawn back. Even more customary was the lifeless, cylindrical barrel of a pistol against her temple. Cat was beside her, her emaciated form palpitant with ferine dementia.

"_You _know what, Lynné?" she growled, her voice dripping with malevolence and quivering with animosity. "Fuck you."

Her stepsister let out a soft sigh of disdain, her gaze still drawn to the fire.

"No, Cat," she murmured distantly. "After you."

With the invitation still falling from her lips, Lynné Sands bent her knees, dropping to the ground just as Cat's gun went off. She grasped the handle of the fire poker. Its tip glowed eerily white against the vibrant orange of the flames. Cat had recovered from the shock at witnessing Lynné dodge a bullet when a gun was pressed to her head, and Lyn knew that she hadn't much time. Summoning what remained of her strength Lynné aimed the poker, tightened her grip on its handle, and thrust it upward, never stopping until she knew that she had hit her target.

There was the satisfying hiss of moisture against heat. The scent of scorched flesh permeated the air, thick and roiling, almost nauseating in its assault on her senses. A dull _squish_ as the sharp iron point was driven into a doughy, mucilaginous substance said it all.

Cat never had the chance to scream. A startled gasp as the searing end of the poker was forced into her right eye would have to suffice. There was a sudden crack, like ice breaking from a glacier, as Lynné embedded the fire poker deeper into Cat's eye socket until at last the bone gave way and the tool broke through the back of Catherine's skull. It was an awesome sight, the lurid amalgam of blood, brains, and ragged flesh intermingled with tiny shards of bone, and all of it woven into a nest of matted, sanguine hair.

A muffled _flump _sounded as Catherine fell to her knees, the corners of her lone eyeball crinkled in hurt disbelief beneath the fluttering of lashes. Her handgun lay forgotten merely several inches away.

Through slightly parted lips there came a meek croak of a gasp, barely audible over the crackling of the fire. Lynné watched with avid, if somewhat platonic, interest as the blue of Catherine's eyes became diluted and until her stepsister swayed and toppled over in a sad, macabre heap on the hearth, her pitiful croaking muted at last by Death's imperative hand.

Unsurprisingly, a sense of satisfaction enveloped Lynné, but the feeling was quickly chased away by cool, oddly soporific relief. Without warning, the urge to collapse swallowed her aching body, and had the welcoming embrace of Poisson's navy blue armchair not been present, Lynné surly would have been lost to the world of unconsciousness.

**_Ding dong, the bitch is dead,_** the voice caroled cheerfully.

Lynné rolled her eyes as she sank into the armchair, her lithe frame folding into its soft cushions with ease.

"Oh my God…" She didn't need to look up to know who the new speaker was. She was far too accustomed to that childish panic to be mistaken. Sure enough, when Lynné opened her eyes she was greeted to the tall, deceptively lean figure of Liam Fusco holding the hand of a slightly shaken Joséphine.

"Catherine," he murmured faintly.

"Yeah," Lynné replied the corners of her lips twitching into a tired smile. "I've never seen her look better, either."

* * *

There he was. Ajedrez smiled. She hadn't expected him to simply show himself that quickly, but then again, it was most likely part of one of his feeble, half-hatched schemes. So pathetic. It was quite amusing, however, and almost…cute…in a way. Ajedrez could not understand why the way he was so supportive of his feeble plans was appealing. It simply…_was_. Perhaps she would have found it tiresome under any other circumstances. Had Sands been a clumsy, unattractive geek Ajedrez would have killed him the second his whipped out his inhaler, whether she had the desired information or not. 

Sands _was _something of a geek, if she recalled correctly. All of those collectible lunchboxes practically screamed numskull, and the assortment of cheesy disguises, combine that with his love of asinine T-shirts (Sands had no grasp of fashion to speak of) and immature joke and one would have the quintessential idiot. Yet he had had a certain air about him that seemed to erase all traces of stupidity his person may have ever held. And she knew that he was smart, brilliant even. He knew it, too, and that was his first mistake.

Blinded by his own self-assurance, Sands had willingly informed her of his plan to walk off with her father's money. He spoke calmly when discussing his scheme, but she had see the excitement in his eyes that day when he had finally revealed everything. The poor bastard had been so confident in the flawlessness of his plan and so certain that she was trustworthy. Ajedrez had to admit that convincing him hadn't been easy. Upon meeting anyone new Sands was immediately paranoid and suspicious of their true motives. Though he appeared relaxed, he was truly on edge, just waiting for the stranger to make their move.

It had taken some extraordinary acting, but she had done it. She had had to whore herself to the king of all _pajieras_, but she had done it. For her father, she had done it. Eventually she managed to lure _el idiota_ into her trap. She had been quite proud of herself, too. Until, of course, Sands, vengeful _mierda pequena _that he was, sent a bullet ripping through her innards.

He had not seen the bullet penetrate her skin. He had not seen her die. He hadn't _seen _anything thanks to Dr. Guevera. Yet he knewfor certain that she was dead. Just as it seemed, now, that he was confident that he would walk out of this alive. She supposed it was his cocky attitude that had told him that. Such a waste, for his arrogance truly was his one weak point.

_Oh well. It's no one's fault but his own, _she mused and fired two bullets neatly into his chest.

* * *

Two furious bangs ripped through the air, bringing an end to the nighttime silence. A strangled gasp flew from Sands' lips before he even had a chance to raise his pistol. Blood began to pour from the gaping holes in his chest. In a matter of seconds his shirt was soaked. The force of the gunshots caused all of Zebbidy's stitching to come undone. Old wounds bled freely as the even rows of catgut burst upon impact and pain exploded in his chest. 

Through the haze of it all he could see Ajedrez. She was smiling. Her eyes were narrowed but she was smiling nonetheless. How strange.

From off in the distance a sorrowful cry sounded and seemed to echo throughout the room. Or perhaps it was all inside his head. He couldn't be sure. All he saw was Zebbidy's attenuated form – rather, her legs. Sometime during the mayhem that followed the gunshots Sands had fallen to his knees. He couldn't quite remember doing that, but he couldn't bring himself to question it further.

Zebbidy was standing in front of him now, posing as a barrier between him and Ajedrez.

"Clever of you, _conchuda_," Sands heard Ajedrez purr through his reverberating agony. "I want him alive."

"Enough," Zebbidy whispered fiercely. "I can't stop you from killing him, but I _refuse _to let you torture – "

"Are you in love with him?" Ajedrez snorted disgustedly. "Or are you just compassionate?"

Sands didn't wait for Zebbidy to answer. He knew he was going to die, but he'd be damned if he was going to let Ajedrez live. The mind-numbing pain of before was gone, evaporated when endurance kicked in. The burning ache was still strong, but the will to live was stronger and it doused the flames to a brittle flicker. With his grip secure, Sands peeked the muzzle of his gun around Zebbidy's legs, aimed, and fired.

Ajedrez's pistol flew through the air and skittered across the ground until it lay, quite harmless, in the corner. Señorita Barillo herself let out a cry of furious anger and clutched her bleeding palm.

Time was precious and Sands didn't waste a second of it. With a mighty shove he pushed Zebbidy to the ground and, ignoring the cry of protest, trained his gun on the faintly keening Ajedrez.

Two shots, one through each of her faux legs, did the job.

Despite it all Sands had managed to fide the exact stone to pull out from Ajedrez's seemingly undefeatable walls and make them crumble. He regarded her for a moment, watching her mercilessly crushed form without pity. The heiress was on her knees, glaring venomously and muttering reverently through bared teeth when the final bullet raced through the air.

Her eyes crossed as if to look at the round, utterly perfect hole that now decorated her forehead. For a moment, silence descended – a tacit requiem mass for the fading drug lord. Then, quite suddenly, noise remembered its place and quickly resumed its duties. And Ajedrez fell onto her side with her beautiful chestnut locks tumbling over one another in a coppery tangle that covered her entire face, save for a solitary, heartless eye. The light on that eye slowly grew dim until finally it was gone forever, and Sands, with his ravaged body leaking more fluids by the minute, watched it happen. It was the last thing he saw as the world drained before him and he succumbed to the blackness, cradled in Zebbidy's arms.

* * *

_Oh thank gods… I didn't think I would finish this in time. Today's the anniversary of when of first began this fic, if you don't know. _:) _Crazy, isn't it? Not as crazy as Tom Cruise has been acting lately, though. I've actually taken something of a liking to him now that he's lost it. But that's irrelevant to the story, isn't it? Sorry. Don't worry, kids. Sands isn't going to die. While this _is _indeed the last chapter, I have a short epilogue to post before I officially declare the end of Smoke. And forgive me for the lack of Author's Thanks in this chapter – I'm pressed for time! Adios and happy Fourth of July for those that celebrate it! _


	52. Positive Friction

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Epilogue: **Positive Friction

The final installment has arrived. The beast can at last be slain. Seriously, this thing is ridiculously long. I'm definitely going back and combining several chapters once all is said and done. For a while I will be busy working on my _Phantom of the Opera _story, as well as an _Invader Zim _parody that is based on the new PotO movie (shameless self-advertisement: It's posted here! Go read! And read _Marketing Strategies of Present Day America _if you haven't already!). Once again I am debating writing a third Mexico fic. Like I said, if I do, it will most likely be a series of one-shots rather than an actual story, but I do hope that it will suffice. 'Til then, please enjoy the conclusion of _Smoke Gets in Your Eyes_.

* * *

"I'm sorry…"

There was no response, which left her feeling oddly relieved. Had Sands been awake to hear her, she would have most certainly found a pair of hands wrapped around her neck before her lips curved to form the beginning of an explanation. Not a single doubt lingered in Zebbidy's mind that Sands would kill her. It was a false hope that he would ever hear her out. No, the agent was intent on killing her and Zebbidy knew that he would get exactly what he wanted no matter how badly injured or heavily sedated he was. Best to be done with her pitiful attempt at making amends now while the agent was still adrift on a sea of knock-out drugs and strong painkillers.

_Good plan. Get in, get out. Never let him know you were here. _

The thought both sickened and appealed to her.

He looked so peaceful, she could help but notice, for a man who nearly relived what was quite possibly the most horrific moment of his life. Bullets had torn through the air, thrice plunging deep into Sands' flesh and staining the ground with waves of blood. The agent had been blinded a second time, but had miraculously recovered his sight with her guidance. Zebbidy wondered if Sands remembered that he was in debt to her. After all, hadn't he said, rather, thought that he owed her?

_He didn't kill me when he found out I was a Poisson. He has no debt to repay, now._

She nodded to herself, absentmindedly fingering the edge of the light blue bedspread. Beside her, an IV slowly drained as its liquid contents entered Sands' body. Zebbidy frowned at the needle that rested in the crook of the agent's elbow, but made no move to extract it. She may not have approved of using needles in medical practice, but she knew that there were more efficient than her herbal remedies. Still, she couldn't help the slight disapproval she was feeling toward the IV. Sands would have ripped the device out of his arm had he been awake.

_Then he'll finish me off, which means I should just go –_

"Shit. Didn't think I'd see you again."

Zebbidy turned in her seat so quickly she heard her bones crack. She winced, knowing that she would be paying for the hasty action tomorrow when her neck and back pained her, but hearing the voice of Lynné Sands would send any sensible person into panic. Despite the slight build and casual stance as she leaned against the doorframe, Zebbidy was well aware that Lynné was prepped to spring into action _before _a moment's notice. So she watched Lynné warily as the woman idly bit at a hangnail.

"How's Joséphine?" Zebbidy ventured cautiously.

The agent raised an eyebrow, a guillotine's blade climbing upwards before it's final, mortal fall.

"I would think that her cousin of all people wouldn't need to ask that."

Zebbidy's body ignored her mind's pleas not to cringe. Lynné smirked.

"Then again," she continued lazily, "my father doesn't know how old I am, so I can't blame you entirely. To answer your question, the kid's fine. Don't think she likes Virginia as much as Paris, but that isn't really my problem."

"You're her legal guardian, it's very much your problem," Zebbidy reminded her, treading dangerous waters.

Lynné raised a finger and shook it in correction. "No, no, no. That's where you're wrong, my little scissorlegs. Technically, you and M. Vincent Poisson are her guardians. But, after Vince informed me that he couldn't take her and we assumed that you wouldn't want her and we figured that an orphanage wouldn't be able to handle her…" She spread her arms out as if to say '_C'est la vie_,' and shrugged. "So she's with me."

"What's the CIA think of that?"

The agent shrugged and made a noncommittal noise. Zebbidy decided not to test her luck and changed the subject.

"I'm…sorry," she blurted. "About Catherine, I mean. Your stepsister."

Lynné snorted. "Yeah."

"You're not?" Zebbidy had to admit she was not completely surprised at the other woman's lack of compassion.

"Does it look like I am? Because if it does, then I need to contact my shrink immediately."

After shaking her head, Zebbidy turned back to Sands. If he had moved during any part of her conversation, then Zebbidy couldn't tell.

"Feeling guilty?" Lynné inquired from the doorway.

"Yes…"

"See, this is why I'm the cold, unfeeling person that I am," she went on to explain. "When I lie and wind up hurting someone in the process…I don't care. Remorse has no effect on me."

"That's why you're such a good agent," Zebbidy murmured distantly.

"Why else would the CIA keep me around? Same thing goes for him," she said, nodding to her unconscious brother. "So I guess I don't have to ask why _you're _here."

"I wouldn't think so, no," Zebbidy replied dully, still gazing at Sands. Suddenly, she looked up. "Did you want me to leave?"

"Oh, no, by all means…" Lynné waved her off. "Someonehas to sit here and make sure he doesn't attack any of the nurses."

"What about you –"

"_I _have to make sure Liam doesn't have a slip of the tongue when we tell my family that dear Catherine is no more."

"You aren't worried abo –"

"To some extent, yes," Lynné admitted. "But am I losing sleep over him? Nah. Trust me when I say he's been in worse conditions than this."

Zebbidy stared at her, stunned. Lynné glanced at her nails again.

"So you're gonna stay?"

"Yeah…" Zebbidy muttered, dazed from her reverie. "Yes. I'll stay with him."

It was not until much later when Zebbidy realized the finality of her words.

**

* * *

**

"Oh…shit…"

"Oh, shit."

Weakly, Sands pried his eyes open, only to find himself staring up at nothing but a vast ocean of emptiness. He blinked. Or did he? The darkness was so consuming he was having difficulties distinguishing fantasy from reality.

"Oh…you're up," Zebbidy's voice sighed, sounding weary but relieved.

"Where the fuck am I?" the agent demanded.

"Langley, Virginia, US of A," she replied, ignoring the harshness of his tone. "You've been out for a while now. It's November fifth."

"What happened to France?" he asked dimly.

"It's still there," Zebbidy answered through a yawn. "The Poisson Mafia's crumbled. Everyone of importance is dead, save for Vincent, who is now part of the witness protection program, according to your sister, who, by the way, has adopted Joséphine. Am I going too fast?" she asked when Sands massaged his forehead, his face pinched with pain. The agent growled a "No" and Zebbidy continued. "Lynné, Joséphine, and Liam are visiting your parents, I believe."

Sands raised an eyebrow.

"They went to tell them that your stepsister Catherine died," she explained delicately.

"Oh." Sands sat back looking mildly surprised upon hearing this news. "How'd that happen?"

Zebbidy took a steadying breath. "From what the CIA has been able to determine, she appears to have killed her partner Richard Harrington and then in turn killed herself. But a few loose ends are making them wonder. While all evidence points to suicide, the manner in which she died is…unusual."

"Care to enlighten me?"

"It seems as though she used a heated fire poker on herself. They found it plunged into her right eye and pushed straight through her skull. The fact that it was pushed through her head leaves the CIA wondering if it was indeed a suicide."

"Cat's too full of herself to commit suicide," Sands said tiredly, closing his eyes.

"That's what Lynné said," Zebbidy told him.

"How'd the Company talk her into flying out to Colorado?" the agent wondered, perturbed.

"I think she volunteered, actually."

"No kidding," Sands stated flatly.

"Something about introducing your father to Joséphine and giving him a heart attack," Zebbidy explained further, her eyebrows peaked with curiosity.

"Ah. Now it all makes sense."

"What do you two have against your father?" Zebbidy questioned suddenly. "I've only ever heard you speak ill of him."

"I'd rather not go in to that if it's all the same to you, cheese-tits," Sands retorted and Zebbidy knew not to push him further.

"What're you doing here?" he inquired dully, gazing up at the ceiling.

"Lynné suggested I stay." She shrugged. "I don't think she cared for the idea of you waking up alone."

"Figures," Sands muttered darkly.

"She only worries about you, even if she doesn't say it aloud," Zebbidy said gently.

Sands rolled his eyes. "Okay." Although he knew she was right. "So she and Fusco are really –"

"Apparently, yes," Zebbidy. "And in all honesty I think it's perfectly safe."

"Aside from the whips, nipple clips, candle wax, etceteras…" Sands smirked. Zebbidy wasn't amused.

"That doesn't mean she can't take care of herself," she insisted rather hotly.

"Yeah, that's why her own partner screwed her over," Sands dryly reminded her.

"He was trying to help –"

"—and nearly killed us all in the process. Y'know…there's a reason Lyn was paired up with Fusco. The Company thought she'd be easier to bump off if they stuck her with an incompetent rookie." He let out a short, humorless laugh. "Took while, but in the end they almost got their wish."

"It's almost unbelievable," Zebbidy murmured, shaking her head. "I find it hard to fathom the CIA just…getting rid of one of their people like that."

"That's why _you_ wouldn't make a good agent," Sands informed her.

"This room's probably bugged," she remarked suddenly, though her tone contained only the smallest hint of excitement. Sands didn't even bother to lift an eyelid. Instead he shrugged gingerly, taking care not to jar his injuries, and muttered, "If that's true, then nothing we've said is news to them."

Zebbidy said nothing, choosing to stare at her hands as if they denoted the meaning of life.

"I've been debating," she intoned at last, "whether you would want to know what happened to her. Ajedrez."

There was no movement from the man in the bed. His eyes did not open. His heart rate barely changed. Not a single tremor rippled through his lithe body to indicate that the name had an effect. Only the way he spoke through clenched teeth told Zebbidy that she overstepped her boundaries.

"She's dead."

"Yes," she assured him, her voice reduced to a mere susurration.

"We know that she's dead."

"Yes."

"I killed her."

Zebbidy swallowed. "You did."

"And you're sure of this?"

"Absolutely."

Sands was quiet for a moment, momentarily distracted as he tried to remember what had happened on – he stilled, his eyebrows knitting in confusion.

"What's today?" he demanded suddenly.

"The fifth."

"So I've been out for…?"

"Three days," Zebbidy supplied obediently.

To her surprise, Sands raised a hand to his head and laughed hollowly.

"Figures…" he rasped through his painful snickering. "Bet she was pissed I didn't wish her a happy anniversary."

"What?" Zebbidy asked, lost.

"November second was…very special to Señorita Barillo and I," he explained, still not quite over coming his saturnine mirth.

"Oh," Zebbidy breathed, unsure of what else to say.

"You…stood between us, didn't you?" Sands turned to her, silently demanding an answer.

Zebbidy cleared her throat. "Yes, I did."

She waited for him to question her further, but he did not. He merely nodded distantly, more to himself than to Zebbidy, and said nothing more for the rest of the night.

* * *

Zebbidy was breathing deeply when Sands returned from his reverie. After many hours of watching his dull progress, she had finally fallen asleep over the bed with one arm was folded beneath her acting as a pillow, while the other lay stretched out beside her.

**_Reaching out to you_.**

_Don't start._

**_I'm merely pointing out the facts, Sheldon. Granted, she kept information from you, but how was it any different from what _you _do all the time?_**

_What are you getting at? _Sands questioned suspiciously.

**_You didn't feel it necessary to tell her about your family; she felt the same way._**

_My history is a little less important than hers, if you didn't notice._

The voice sighed. **_Fine. She lied to you and in the same manner as Ajedrez. But that's what women _do_, asshole. Do you think you'd like Lynné half as much if she didn't feed you bullshit every now and then?_**

**_Besides_, **it continued, **_if ol' Zeb had truly betrayed you, don't you think you'd be dead by now?_**

_So what are you saying?_

_**What do you **_**think _I'm saying, dumbass? Zeb's one of those caring types who wouldn't dream of hurting someone as pathetic as yourself. She's probably an environmentalist, too, _**it added as an afterthought. **_And I wouldn't be shocked to find a PETA bumper sticker on her car._**

_She's compassionate. Fine. Yet another reason why she wouldn't make it in the CIA._

_**Doesn't mean she couldn't make it **_**with _a CIA agent, if you catch my meaning._**

Sands rolled his eyes, deciding not to answer as he glanced at Zebbidy's dozing form.

It was not as if they were disgustingly mushy and lovey-dovey like the couples seen in movies and television, and they didn't grope like teenagers or hump like rabbits. And they certainly didn't have heart-to-hearts about their _feelings_. The closest they ever got to _that _was when he filled her in on the Day of the Dead.

He sighed.

_Fuck. She cares. I _know_ she cares. It's obvious to_ me _, but to other people – those who aren't clairvoyant, that is – it isn't. And I like it that way._

**_The question is, do _you_ care about her?_**

_Yes, or else she would've been dead by now, dumbass, _he snapped, irritated.

**_So is this one of these situations where you would do anything for her, or one where you'll just freak out if you catch her banging somebody else?_**

_Depends, _Sands replied casually, wishing he had a smoke. _Does she even _want _a relationship? You're ruling that out._

**_Personally, it seems like she wants a big, strong, manly-man to save her. Now, she'll have to settle for _you_, but I think she's desperate enough to take anything._**

_Cute, _Sands muttered dryly, scowling.

He bit his lip, eyeing the sleeping woman beside him. It was in his nature not to trust people, but even he couldn't help but feel that it would be foolish to discard Zebbidy because of his own issues. Lynné trusted Zebbidy enough to leave her alone with him while he was unconscious and weak from blood loss. And Lyn was as paranoid as he was if not more so.

Still, allowing Zebbidy to stay would mean giving up his own freedoms. He would not be able to have sex with anyone he wanted again. He wouldn't be able to pick up any more hookers. Zeb sure as hell wouldn't let him keep his porno mags. His subscription to _Penthouse _would be one of the first things to go. And it would make sense for a humanitarian like Zebbidy to want him to cut down on killing. Just a bit. Maybe. Killing people was, after all, part of the job. But still, no more sprees.

**_You have to think, Sheldon,_** the voice insisted.**_ This isn't one of those times when you make a decision right away. You've had a lot of women and so far only one of them has meant anything to you. And _she _nearly killed you. So you have to take this into deep consideration. Are you willing to stay with this woman? Are you willing to make sacrifices for her? Defend her?_**

Sands fought past the gossamer haze of the morphine the doctors had send flowing through his veins. For some reason he felt the need to rouse Zebbidy from her dreams. He had the odd sensation of vomiting up his thoughts, but he was able to swallow his verbal bile before it made a disgusting mess. He rubbed his eyes and groaned, the sound muffled by his pillow. He returned his gaze to Zebbidy, still resigned to sleep and unaware of the war raging within his mind. Looking at her only angered Sands further. His head was beginning to pound. Was he willing to make compromises for one woman? Was he willing to do that for her?

With a sigh Sands let his eyes slide shut and he made his decision.

_Hell, yeah._

**La Fin**

* * *

_It's over. At long last, it's over. It's been over a year since I first began this story, actually, and I still have to go back and make corrections and, as I said earlier, combine chapters. Once again, I _may _write a third story, but I am not entirely certain._ _If I do, I hope that you will all follow it as well as you did these last two. My appreciation for your praise and, more importantly, your critiques is unfathomable. I cannot begin to thank you enough, but I shall try._**Author's Thanks and Review Responses**

**Dawnie-7:** David caught you off guard, huh? That's good. I always aim to surprise the readers. :) Just for curiosity's sake, though, who did you think it was if not David? Cat needed to have a nasty death. u.u There's just no questioning that. I'm shocked that so many thought I had killed off Sands:O I'd never do that! Even if I wanted to, he wouldn't let me. ;) And I'm glad somebody else likes the new crazy Tom Cruise, too.

**morph: **"Brilliant and gruesome." Thank you! That's what I was going for! I knew I was going to kill her off and I knew that Lynné would be the one to do it, however, I wanted Cat's death to be…well…nasty. Really bloody, really disgusting…that way no one, not even I could go "OMG! Plot twist!" and resurrect her like I did Ajedrez. Just…no. I don't like Cat and she needed to die. Thing was, I originally wanted her to get her head cut off. O.o This proved difficult to do, however, given the situation they were in. So, in the end, she got a head full of fire poker. It was gross, but I'm glad you liked it.

**fanfiction fanatic:** I couldn't let Sands die after, as you said, he's been through so much. It's like I said to my friend the Gilatas Monster, ya can't keep a good dog down, even if that good dog is really, really bad. :P And I'm glad you understand why I might not write a sequel. It is very assuring.

**Lynx Ryder:** Josey _has _been through a lot. I never took it into much consideration, but, yes, she certainly has. I'm surprised that the nasty chain of events she's had to endure hasn't traumatized her, the poor kid. I don't think Ajedrez _just _realized that depression can lead to suicide, just that that's what could happen to _her _and she hadn't realized that until now I apologize for Cat's death being so…icky. I'm not partial to gruesome deaths, but as I said to Morph, Cat needed to go and she couldn't come back. Everyone was caught off guard when Ajedrez shot Sands! (is pleased) That's exactly how I planned it, so hearing that I managed to shock some made my day. :D

**Elven-Roarior Jeavryn:** New reviewer! Hi:D No, no…I couldn't kill Sands. He may be a sociopathic, perverted creep sometimes (okay, most of the time) but that would just be mean after all he's had to endure at my hand alone. And of course he killed Ajedrez. It could not be any other way. u.u

_And now, dear readers, I'm afraid I must bid you farewell. But not before I post the lyrics to the title song and not before I shamelessly ask for assistance. As much as I hate to sound like a mooch, I'm at my wit' s end, here, so…has anyone ever read _Crime and Punishment _by Fyodor Dostevsky or Nathaniel Hawthorne's _The Scarlet Letter? _If so, please e-mail me or leave a note in your review, and I will explain the situation further. Until then, song lyrics!_

**Smoke Gets in Your Eyes **

**Written by Jerome Kern (music) and Otto Harbach (lyrics) for the musical _Roberta_ in 1933**

They, asked me how I knew,  
My true love was true,  
I of course replied, something here inside,  
Can not be denied.

They, said some day you'll find,  
All who love are blind,  
When you heart's on fire, you must realize,  
Smoke gets in your eyes.

So I chaffed them, and I gaily laughed,  
To think they would doubt our love,  
And yet today, my love has gone away,  
I am without my love.

Now laughing friends deride,  
Tears I cannot hide,  
So I smile and say, when a lovely flame dies,  
Smoke gets in your eyes.

_Wishing you peace, love, and much luck in the future. Until next time, as they say in the city of love… au revoir,_

_- ESY_


End file.
